Encore
by Kris Winter
Summary: Dr. John Watson is getting ready to move out of 221B Baker Street because of his upcoming marriage. Just when things appear to be perfect for John and Mary, an unexpected disaster catches everyone, including Scotland Yard, off their guard. Do they have what it takes to solve a mystery bigger than anyone's ever seen before?
1. Chapter 1

John gazes worriedly at his fiancée. She seems tense, which is unusual for her, completely different from her usual warm and lighthearted character. "Come on, what's wrong?" he asks.

Mary smiles, although slightly. A sparkle lights up her eyes for a moment, but soon vanishes. As much as she is comforted by the presence of John, she still can't quite forget what is troubling her. She inquires; "Do you think he's finally come to terms with you leaving?"

A warm smile lights up John's face. He stares at Mary kindly; his expression is comforting but is still tinged with something that Mary cannot quite determine. "Mary," he responds, "Look at the ring he's given us!" He points to the extravagant diamond ring on Mary's finger.

She sighs deeply, releasing a bit of her worry. A smile graces her face ever so slightly as she admires the beautiful ring on her finger. It glimmers gracefully in the slivers of sunlight that peek through the slightly open curtains. Sherlock certainly did give them the most stunning ring she'd ever seen. This and the fact that the two are about to begin their lives together eases the tension a little bit.

John grins at his fiancée and winks. "Now, five minutes here and we'll go home." He can't imagine being without her.

Her eyes twinkle shyly. There is no need for words; both are reassured and the prospect of a new future fuels their excitement. Mary dreamily grabs John's hand. "Our home," she declares, staring deeply into his eyes.

Mary begins to ascend the stairs to bid Sherlock farewell. John follows right behind her. He is ready to close this chapter of his life and start a new one; he just hopes Sherlock is ready to do the same. The worn and creaky wooden stairs, although a seemingly unlikely source of nostalgia, bring back memories of John's eventful time here. His focus returns to Mary, and the memories of the past dim for the excitement of the future.

"Careful on the stairs!" he warns Mary. Reaching the top of the stairs, Mary nervously glances at John. The worried excitement in her eyes tells John that she is excited, but is concerned about Sherlock. Mary turns back around, now facing Sherlock's room.

A shrill shriek suddenly pierces the air. Mary whirls back around and looks at John. Her face is painted with a look of absolute terror. Fear strikes him, and he quickly grabs the revolver he carries in his coat pocket. He rushes up the stairs to his fiancée.

"What is it?" He looks around, but sees nothing strange. John's focus now returns to Mary. She has turned back around, and is frozen in place staring into Sherlock's room.

"What? Mary! Are you okay? What's wrong?" John rushes to her side. Her expression is that of terror, and she is still seemingly in shock. "Mary! What is it? What's wrong?" he asks again.

Mary extends a hand upward. Her hand points in the direction of Sherlock's room, and she is shaking. John's eyes dart upwards as his hand instinctively moves once again to the revolver he is carrying.

He sees a shadowy silhouette in the dark room. His eyes widen in fear. As John walks slowly into the room, the golden beams of sunlight from the afternoon sun illuminate the dark room. A lifeless figure is hanging from the ceiling by a rope around its neck.

John immediately ceases his cautious walk and runs to the body. He examines the figure. It's Sherlock's body. John's heart seems to skip a beat. He freezes in shock.

"No." He denies the scene out loud. He isn't talking to anyone; he's just unable to accept what he's just seen.

This is completely uncharacteristic of him, he thinks. I know he wouldn't. After realizing this, he breathes a jittery sigh of relief. He quickly begins, "Don't worry, dear."

Mary looks up at him, shaking her head in horror. She cannot believe how quickly John dismisses the terrible scene in front of them.

"Suicide is not in his repertoire. He's far too fond of himself for that." he assures her.

Mary is doubtful. She sees what she sees, and will not easily be persuaded to believe otherwise.

John walks into the room calmly. "Holmes!" he shouts, his voice laced with a hint of impatient laughter. Sherlock's eyes remain closed. John sighs. Sometimes Sherlock is so stubborn. "Sherlock Holmes!" No movement.

John turns toward the desk, which is cluttered with peculiar objects. He walks up to it. "What on earth? How does he find anything in here?" It looks like an avalanche! Sherlock is definitely an eccentric person. After searching through the monstrous pile of papers, John finds a long dagger with an ornate handle. "When did he get this?" He shakes his head. It's basically useless to ask why Sherlock does what he does. He doesn't work according to rules or expectations of other people. It's almost as if Sherlock has his own reality.

John shrugs and grabs the knife. He walks back up to the hanging body and slices the rope. The body helplessly tumbles to the floor. No response. John furrows his brow nervously. He isn't normally this stubborn.

"Stop acting like an idiot, Holmes! Get up!" Nothing.

John grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and shakes him, yelling, "COME ON, SHERLOCK!"

At the door, Mary remains frozen in shock, completely unsure of what to do.

John drops to his knees. He begins to panic. Breathing progressively faster, John tugs the shabby sleeve of Sherlock's coat up to his elbow. He is now noticeably shaking. John clutches Sherlock's wrist. John's shaking becomes more pronounced.

"Come on." He bites his lip. "Come on. Come on! Come on! COME ON!" John's grip tightens. "No…" he groans. "No… there has to be… there has to be a pulse…" There isn't.

John lets go of Sherlock's wrist. He collapses next to Sherlock. Clutching his head in his hands, he squeezes his eyes shut. John's groans turn to sobs. "Why? How could you do this! WAKE UP! WAKE UP RIGHT NOW! YOU CAN'T!"

Mary, trembling, finally stumbles into the room. She sinks to the floor next to her fiancé, tears streaming down her face. "He's gone." She gently places a trembling arm around him. John's outburst slowly begins to quiet.

221B Baker Street turns silent.


	2. Chapter 2

"I… I just don't understand why he would do this," says an extremely shaken Mary. Her eyes dart around the room nervously. She is shaking, like she's shivering, but it's not cold inside.

"He… he never seemed sad or anything like that. He was acting like his normal self before…" She bites her lip. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. She tries to be brave, but the feelings that occupy her right now are hard to dismiss.

"Are there… any other reasons that he might…might…" asks the unsure policeman. He can see how shaken Mary is. He hates having to be the one who interrogates her.

After a long pause, Mary sighs. She doesn't want to think about it, but she's going to have to. "No. I don't think so, at least. He'd just finished a good investigation. I don't know why he would do anything like this. It's so unlike him. He always… you know, had such a confidence in himself. He had pride in his work, and I don't see how anything could have convinced him to do this. He was so sure in himself. It doesn't make sense…" her voice trails off. "That's really all that I know. I'm sorry. I really do wish I could help more, but that's really all I can tell you." She's unsure, and understandably so.

"Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate your help."

Sherlock's death is a shock for everybody. It's not just another dead body. It's not just another investigation. Nobody is prepared for anything like this. How could they be? It is totally opposite to his character. In fact, Sherlock Holmes is the last person that anyone would suspect of doing anything like this.

An unusual melancholy settles over the whole investigation at 221B Baker Street. Everyone is trying to work, trying to figure out any reason, any motive. But, honestly, there is nothing to work off of. There's nothing suggesting that it was a murder. There's no evidence that anyone else was in the room. So, then, it must have been a suicide. It's really an easy investigation. But the "easy investigation" puts nobody's mind at ease.

While the investigation is totally lacking in questions that need to be answered, everyone working the case is far from satisfied. Really, it's because people aren't looking for facts or truth right now. They want hope. They want to know why he would kill himself. That's really the only question in anyone's mind. It is always present.

Lestrade stands at the doorway, surveying the sober scene. He too is surprised by Sherlock's death. Some members of Lestrade's team are attempting to interrogate John and Mary, but to little avail. Not only are John and Mary still in shock, but the police are distressed too.

Lestrade walks up to John. He is currently being questioned by one of the detectives. Based on the look of defeat that is present on the officer's face, Lestrade guesses that he's had little luck.

"Doctor, did he have any reason for… you know." Asked the officer.

"Well, I don't think so. He seemed fine. Maybe… It's possible that his last case could have stressed him out, or something like that. But it's always been the opposite. Sherlock is usually nervous or worried when he _isn't _doing work. A new case almost seems to calm him."

Lestrade motions to the officer to finish up with the interrogation. Obviously, there's not much information that is being discovered because of it, and John is so shaken already. He'd hate to keep him worried about all of this. The officer nods to Lestrade.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor Watson. I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you."

Lestrade approaches the officer as he walks away. "Did you get anything new?" Lestrade had to ask, but he was fairly sure he knew the answer. He was right.

"No. I'm sorry. The best I got was that he might have possibly been upset because of his last case."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Well, thank you for trying." The officer nods and walks away, obviously feeling defeated.

The death was so unexpected, especially after such a great success in the Blackwood case. Dr. John Watson had shakily declared Sherlock dead earlier in the day. It is obvious to the investigators that the death was a suicide, but why? Why would Sherlock kill himself after such great success?

That question is present in everyone's mind, but excessively in John's. The unknowns in this death torment John. He had thought that he knew Sherlock. That was why he had been so certain at first that Sherlock hadn't committed suicide. Sunlight streams in through the open windows. It seems kind of strange. When Sherlock was here, the windows were always closed. He claimed it was easier to focus that way. John shakes is head. It's scary to think about Sherlock in the past tense. He can't believe it's over. Just when the next part of his life was about to start.

"There is no clear motive," John whispers to himself painfully. He gazes around the room. Nothing looks the same as usual. The windows are open and there is an abundance of people. A colossal pile of books lies in the corner collecting dust. Everything was normal , except…

Suddenly, a realization arrives in John's mind that sickens him. What if Sherlock had committed suicide because he couldn't handle the fact that John was moving away with Mary? The two had been a couple for a while, but the close proximity to the wedding could have been Sherlock's breaking point.

Guilt suddenly overwhelms John. He can't handle it. Sherlock had seemed like he was not bitter about the relationship, but John now feels responsible for his death.

Lestrade approaches John. "How are you doing?"

John sighs, and answers. "Okay, I guess…" It's a lie, and Lestrade knows it. John can't handle the guilt anymore.

"Lestrade, I think I might know why…" He tries to push the thought out of his mind, but his guilt just grows. There's no going back.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asks confusedly. "I… he might have been worried about me moving out. You know, for my wedding."

Lestrade hadn't thought about that. "Well, thank you. But I think that you should try getting your mind off this. Maybe go out?"

John nods. "Thank you. Really," he says. He walks out of the room, trying to keep his mind off the terrible scene.

But he can't.


	3. Chapter 3

John sits quietly alone in Sherlock's room. He doesn't really know what he's supposed to do. Sherlock has been dead for a week, but things aren't getting any easier for John.

The funeral was five days ago, but John still finds it hard to accept his friend's death. He knows that he shouldn't feel like he's at fault but as much as he tries, John can't escape from the guilty feelings that he has placed on himself. He tries to think of another more likely motive, but fails to find one. This just compounds his anguish.

"How could he? I don't understand," he whispers.

John rises to his feet. The floorboards creak as he walks over to the window and he keeps his gaze downward. Sighing, he stares out the window of his friend's room and surveys the city. It's a beautiful day outside, but he doesn't notice. He's two absorbed in all of his thoughts to notice.

John longs for a second chance. Maybe if he'd stayed at Baker Street a little longer Sherlock wouldn't have done this. Maybe none of this would have ever happened. Maybe he could have prevented it. Could he have stopped Sherlock? John doesn't want to let himself think this way, but it's just really hard not to because of the guilt he feels.

He tries to take his mind off it and think about something else, but nothing feels normal anymore. The entire room even feels completely different. Before all of this happened, Sherlock's room was always a mess. Now, it is clean and organized because of the police investigations. The room was always dark, but now light streams in through the open windows.

John can't stand it. He violently slams the windows shut and slides closed the heavy curtains, completely shutting out the sunshine. The room is engulfed in darkness once again. John sinks back into Sherlock's dusty armchair. His mind swirls with the awful things he's had to deal with over the course of the week. Coming to terms with the fact that his partner killed himself (and that it might have been John's fault) is just too much. Especially considering all the painful drama that has taken place since the suicide.

Suddenly, John is surprised by a soft knock on the door. "Who is it?" he asks unenthusiastically.

"It's me," says a soft voice. Mary. The door opens and she walks in. She looks confused, and it's obvious that she's been crying

. "John," she says in a curious-sounding voice. He looks at her, turning away from the closed window. The far-away look in his eyes remains, and it is clear to Mary. "John!" she says suddenly. He snaps out of his daze.

"Yes?" he asks her apathetically. Mary continues, seeming unsure.

"There's a man downstairs that asked to see you. He seems nervous, or… I don't know," This catches John's attention and his eyes widen. Is it one of Sherlock's clients?

"Who? What does he want? Do you know him?" he inquires, sitting up straight.

"Well, no, I don't know him. And I don't think you know him either. He didn't tell me what was wrong, but he said it was urgent."

"Did he tell you his name? I might have met him before," John's apathy suddenly diminishes.

"No, he didn't, but I think you'd better go see him. He seems like he's in a hurry…"

John nods and he rises from his chair. "Mary," he starts. "Yes?" "Did the man ask for… Sherlock or for me?"

"He specifically asked to see you," she replies.

As he exits the room, John's mind is spinning. Why would a man who he didn't know come to see him? He had thought it might be one of Sherlock's former clients, but the man had asked for him by name. He descends the staircase with his fiancée.

As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, John sees a disheveled-looking, unfamiliar man. He has a rough, unshaven beard and he's wearing a worn tweed jacket with muddied brown trousers.

"Dr. Watson." John doesn't recognize the man's voice.

"Good morning, sir. Who are you?" questions John.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself, I'm just kinda, well, worried. I'm… I'm James Wilson. I found somethin' interesting this morning. And… I thought that you might, um, wanna see it."

"What exactly did you find, Mr. Wilson?" Wilson's vague language infuses John's curiosity with suspicion and he looks intently at the man.

"Well, Dr. Watson, I suppose that I shouldn't say I found somethin'. I found_ someone_ this morning." The man seems shaken as he says this.

"What do you mean you found 'someone'? Is it someone you know?" asks John.

"Well," replies Wilson, "I found a dead body. Behind a building. The person looked kind of familiar, sort of like I've seen 'em before, so I was worried. You probably think I'm crazy… "

John is curious. "No, no, Mr. Wilson, I don't think you're crazy. Have you gone to the police?"

"No, sir. I came to you first." Wilson responds.

"Why _didn't_ you go to the police first?" Suspicion tinges his voice.

"I… Someone told me that you and Mr. Holmes are the best sleuths around, so I thought that you'd be happy to have a new… case, or whatever you call it. And…" Wilson avoids looking directly at John. He looks uncomfortable.

"And what, Mr. Wilson?"

Wilson sighs. "And I'm not really best friends with the police. I don't have a great history with 'em, so I wasn't exactly anxious to call them,"

John's curiosity seems to give him slight energy. "Did you touch anything at the scene, sir?"

"No. I was kinda startled, and as soon as I saw the body I was worried that someone would think that I did it, so I ran off, "

"Good," John responds quickly. "Well, then, Mr. Wilson," he says. "I suggest we head to the scene."

Wilson nods nervously. "Mary!" John calls loudly.

"Yes?" Mary answers as she descends the stairs.

"I'm going off to town to help out Mr. Wilson here. I'll see you later," Mary nods, and the two men leave.

As they get in a cab, John can't help but wonder why he's helping Wilson. He doesn't even know the man! But something about the whole case seems strange.

And John wants to find out why.


	4. Chapter 4

John stands in front of the isolated building to which Wilson has led him. It's a run-down looking place, not somewhere that John would usually go.

He inspects it from a distance, trying to figure out what makes it a good place to hide a murder. Nothing seems out of the ordinary except for the unusual silence in this part of the city. Maybe that's what makes it a good place to hide a crime. He shrugs slightly, unable to recognize any other distinguishing features about the place.

John quickly glances at Wilson. He's standing at the edge of the road, and he looks extremely worried. John can't deduce anything from his demeanor.

He wishes that Sherlock were here. If he were here, Sherlock would have probably already found the clue that would solve the whole murder and identify the murderer. He was always strange that way. Always getting down on his hands and knees, inspecting the ground. He would have found every footprint leading up to the alley and analyzed them to find out exactly what type of shoe by which it was made, and then he would have used all of this information to figure out the height and demeanor of both the killer and the victim.

John looks around, trying to find any footprints, but he can't. He doesn't understand how Sherlock used to do this. He tries to push this thinking out of his head as soon as it arrives. He only partially succeeds in this.

To John's relief, Wilson walks up beside him, distracting him from his own painful thoughts.

"Sir," he begins. "I… I saw the body behind this building." John still cannot figure out why any criminal might have chosen this building to murder someone behind. Maybe it wasn't planned.

So far, all John can determine is that the building is a restaurant. Suddenly, John realizes something: the restaurant is currently not open. The building looks run-down, and its windows are boarded up, so John guesses that it might be out of business.

"That could be why it is an opportune place to hide a body," whispers John to himself. That's definitely a likely explanation for the choice of building. John suddenly feels embarrassed. He can't believe that it took him this long to figure out. If Sherlock were here, that wouldn't have been a problem. John shakes his head, and he turns to Wilson. He shrugs and tries to brush off the embarrassment he's feeling.

"Lead the way!" he announces with a sigh.

Wilson nods somewhat nervously and turns toward the building. He walks past the restaurant into the alley on the side of the building. He turns back around to John, looking extremely nervous. Wilson obviously doesn't want to go back to the scene. This makes John curious. How bad is it? Did Wilson actually have something to do with the murder? Maybe he actually was the murderer. These considerations make John extremely suspicious. He wonders if he should have agreed to come with Wilson alone.

John pauses for a moment, unsure whether or not he should continue.

Wilson notices his uneasiness. "I'm sorry… I realize how bad you must be feeling 'bout this. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable. I can call the police if you'd like that. I just… wanted to avoid that if I could. You know, I don't have a particularly good history with the police. We can go back…"

"No," John quickly responds. He's obviously made Wilson feel embarrassed, and now John's feeling guilty for it. "I don't… we don't need to go back. I'm fine. I apologize for my hesitation, I've just had a rough couple of days."

Wilson nods gratefully. "I'm sorry if this is inconveniencing you at all, I just… it seemed like something that I should tell someone about pretty quick, and you were the first person I thought to call. Your colleague, Sherlock Holmes, helped one of my friends a little while ago. My friend said that he solved his case easily, so I thought maybe you two would be the best people to call. You know, apart from the police."

Wilson says all of this with a curious look. John guesses it's because of the fact that Sherlock hadn't come. Wilson probably hadn't heard of the death yet.

"I saw it…the body… behind here," Wilson adds weakly. He is definitely hesitant to return to the area, but John realizes that this is pretty normal. The man had just seen a murder scene. Of course he's not enthusiastic about going back to see it, especially since there's a high chance that he'll be considered a suspect in the murder.

Again, John feels stupid for not realizing such a simple fact as this.

He follows Wilson, keeping his grip steady and firm on the revolver he is carrying. As curious as John is, the unshakeable feeling that Sherlock should be here dulls his excitement. It just feels completely unnatural to be at any crime scene without Sherlock. He tries to shake off the feeling. Sherlock would want me to keep going, he thinks to himself. But it just feels… different.

Wilson begins talking. "Sir, it's… right there. Right over there."

John immediately becomes more alert. He draws the revolver out of his coat and holds it tightly. It just now occurs to him that this could be a trap. He shakes his head, trying to ignore the doubts that are creeping into his mind. He walks in the direction that Wilson is pointing.

John can see the shape of the body. The alley is engulfed in shadows, so he can't see much. John's fairly sure that it's a man, and a tall one. But apart from this, he can tell little about the murder.

He slowly and cautiously walks up beside the corpse.

Suddenly, the revolver tumbles to the ground.

John starts to hyperventilate. Shaking, he turns back around to Wilson.

"What…" he can't finish his sentence.

John drops down to his knees next to the body, completely bewildered. He stares at it for a second longer, eyes wide, then buries his head in his hands.

"What… what is going on?" he mumbles. John peers through his hands at the body once again, it is clear what he is seeing isn't a hallucination.

John plainly sees the corpse of Sherlock Holmes with a bullet wound in the head.


	5. Chapter 5

The clicking wheels of a carriage on the pavement stones in front of the building make John's vigilance return. Probably Lestrade.

He rises to his feet shakily and emerges from the alley. He doesn't really feel like explaining anything to anyone, or even talking right now, but Lestrade definitely needs to see this.

"Dr. Watson, what's goin' on? What's wrong?" Wilson questions confusedly. "I thought you'd seen all this stuff before! Why are you so upset?"

Wilson seems to be angered by the lack of answers that he is receiving, but John bites his lip and walks on, ignoring Wilson completely. Right now, he can't really talk to anyone after what he has just seen. The emotional turmoil that he is feeling is just too much. He can't imagine explaining this to anyone; they would think that he was insane. Not only that, but he doesn't have any logical explanation himself.

Honestly, he's just as confused as Wilson is. Actually, he is probably much, much more confused. One thing is certain, however: he does definitely know that something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

Finding the body of Sherlock Holmes with a bullet wound in the head? And in a dark and deserted alley thirty minutes travel from Baker Street? Those two things make absolutely no sense in themselves. But now, finding his body in a dark and deserted alley five days after his burial? That… that's essentially impossible!

Having to deal with his friend's death was bad enough on its own. But now, this happening… this is just absurd. Not only is it absurd, it's merciless.

John hasn't yet recovered from the shock of having one of his closest friends commit suicide. And now this? Now he has to be constantly reminded of it.

But John tries to ignore his own conflicted thoughts and self-pity. He wants to focus on the problem at hand.

The taxi door swings open rapidly and Lestrade quickly emerges. He hurries to John, looking both concerned and suspicious.

"I came as quickly as I could once I finished up with another call. What's going on? You look extremely pale," he inquires.

John shakes his head. "I… there's…" He is unable to finish his sentence. He doesn't attempt to explain again; really, it's doubtful that he will be able to explain any of this without having answers. Instead, he shakes his head painfully and motions for Lestrade to follow him.

Calling a few other policemen to accompany him, Lestrade hesitantly complies and walks up beside John.

"Really, John. What is going on here? Really, are you okay?" Lestrade can't restrain his curiosity.

John shakes his head. "No," is all he says. He's sort of answering both of Lestrade's questions at the same time. He has no idea what is going on, and he is certainly _not _okay. Not even close.

Lestrade is desperate for answers, but he doesn't continue talking. It's obvious that John would prefer to show him the thing, _whatever_ it is.

The group journeys into the alley, where Wilson is still standing. He looks as puzzled as before, and now he is getting extremely impatient. He opens his mouth as if he's about to say something, but stops. Wilson doesn't have any idea what is going on, but this is clearly not the right time to talk. He's also not happy that the police have come, and he wants to avoid drawing attention to himself. He trails behind the group, not eager to see the body again, but at the same time, far too curious to stay away.

Lestrade pauses and he motions for the rest of the policemen to do the same.

"John," he says. "Where are we going? You haven't told me anything apart from that there's an urgent problem here. So, come on. What's the problem?"

Now John stops walking.

"It's… you're not going to believe me if I tell you."

Lestrade chuckles. "Really? You know, I actually believe a lot more than you might think. Working in London's police can make you believe things that sound impossible. Well, really working anywhere as an inspector," he states.

John shakes his head. "Not this time," he says. "This time is different. I'm sure you've never seen this…"

Lestrade shakes his head and continues walking.

"There…" John says as he points a shaking finger at the figure lying on the ground, partially concealed by the shadows.

Lestrade looks at John skeptically. "A corpse? That's it? You must realize I see those pretty often. You're not going to shock me with something like that. Is that all? You know…"

Lestrade stops his speech suddenly. He is too utterly shocked to continue. The corpse looks like…

No. It can't possibly be him. There's no way. He's been dead for five days…but, as Lestrade kneels down beside it, he becomes more certain of the very thing he is denying.

The body is Sherlock Holmes'.

"Is this some kind of trick?" he asks, glaring at John confusedly through narrowed eyes. He is met with silence. Lestrade is livid.

"Is this someone's idea of a practical joke? What on earth is going on here?" John doesn't answer.

"Watson! Are you even hearing me? Answer me! What is this? What on earth is going on here?"

John shakes his head slowly. As Lestrade's gaze meets John's, Lestrade suddenly realizes something. John has absolutely no idea what is going on either. A choking silence fills the alley. Everyone feels overwhelmed by the number of unanswered questions present in their minds. Nobody moves at all.

Finally feeling more comfortable, although still puzzled, Wilson walks up to the group, which, by this time, has formed a silent semi-circle around the corpse. Wilson can't contain himself anymore, and he unleashes an angry torrent of questions.

"What is going on? Do you know who it is? Why does everyone seem so shocked? Why is everybody ignoring me?"

Lestrade shakes his head briefly. Another moment of silence passes.

"Well? Isn't anyone going to answer?" questions Wilson impatiently.

John steps forward. He breathes in deeply before beginning.

"I'm sorry. It's just… we know… knew… this man. And…" He has a hard time getting the words out.

"And he was buried five days ago."

**I hope you've like _Encore_ so far! Suggestions and comments to improve the story are always welcome. ****Thanks so much for reading! **


	6. Chapter 6

The sunrise slowly illuminates the clouds with golden hues. Sunlight pours into the alley, slowly flooding the scene. The usually quiet and deserted alley is alive with voices. This scene isn't filled with the quiet shock that was so prominent in 221B Baker Street on the day after Sherlock's body was found.

Everyone at this scene is different. Nobody is silent. Nobody can contain their surprise. Nobody can stop from asking their questions. There is a completely different feeling at this investigation.

John doesn't like it. To him, everything feels sinister. He is suspicious about everything. Everything he thought he knew is being ripped out from under him; how can he not question everything? People that have been buried typically don't just appear in a random alley. People that are already dead aren't usually dug up and shot again.

None of this happens.

Ever.

None of it should have happened at all.

Lestrade is on the opposite side of the alley as John is, right where the body was lying. He is inspecting the scene for any further clues. The scene was already inspected, but this case is so strange that he wants to look again.

The body has already been removed. A white outline of the body remains at the scene, which is where Lestrade is standing right now. As he surveys the alley, Lestrade feels utterly disgusted. He cannot believe that anyone would dig up the body of a man and shoot him again.

Lost in his thoughts, he looks down at the concrete floor of the alley. It is stained with blood from the gunshot wound in the head of the victim.

Suddenly, Lestrade realizes something important. He had been so caught up with interrogations and the examination of the building that he had missed a key clue completely.

There was blood at the scene. Real blood.

In fact, there was a lot, and it was definitely from the gunshot wound on the victim, judging on the size and placements of the stains.

But there shouldn't be.

If the murderer had actually dug up Sherlock's body and shot it after his death, there shouldn't be any blood. It would be impossible. A dead body doesn't have a pumping heart or flowing blood, so if a dead body were shot, there wouldn't be that much blood at the scene.

So either the blood wasn't from the dead person or maybe…

"John!" he calls loudly.

John is at the other side of the alley talking to Mary, who had arrived a few minutes earlier. He glances up at Lestrade, who is urgently waving at him. Lestrade clearly wants John to come look at the scene again. John winces; he's not quite ready to head back to the bloody crime scene right now. He reluctantly nods.

"I'm sorry, Mary. The inspector is calling me,"

Mary nods. "Go ahead. It's probably important,"

John begins to walk over to Lestrade.

"John!" Lestrade calls again.

John sighs. 'He just won't shut up, will he?' thinks John to himself. Sometimes Lestrade is really annoying. He walks up beside Lestrade.

"What is it?" he impatiently asks. He tries to avoid looking at white outline on the ground.

"You're not going to believe this!" says Lestrade is irritated by his enthusiasm.

"Well, then? What is it?"

"I just figured out something important," Lestrade states proudly. "I realized that the blood on the ground couldn't be from Sherlock's body! He's been dead for a whole week already. His body wouldn't still bleed if it was shot!" answers Lestrade. He has an accomplished look on his face.

John looks at him questioningly. "What?" he asks confusedly.

"I said, the blood couldn't…"

"No, not that," interrupts John. "You just realized this right now?"

"Yes, I did. What do you mean?" Lestrade looks confused.

John shakes his head in disbelief. "You're a trained inspector for Scotland Yard in London, you have a whole team of 'trained' and experienced investigators, and you just realized this right now?"

Lestrade nods slowly.

"Seriously? I saw the blood and immediately assumed that! You mean to tell me you've just been wasting time for the last thirty minutes?"

Lestrade bites his lip and stares down at his feet, embarrassed.

"Oh. Well…" Lestrade doesn't finish his sentence.

John shakes his head. It doesn't matter how stupid the police have been. They are upset and shaken too. All that matters is figuring out what's going on.

"I'm sorry that came out harshly, Inspector. We've all had a rough day," John says. "I'd like to take a look at this alley. Is it fine if I do that?"

John doesn't wait for an answer. He walks to the front of the alley with his gaze downward. Now's the time to use the skills that Sherlock taught him.

At the place where the alley meets the road, John gets down on his hands and knees. He slowly looks around for any footprints.

"Lestrade!" John doesn't wait for any response. "Do we have a time of death of the victim?"

Lestrade nods. "Yes, the medic says that the time of death was about 11 pm last night. Why?"

John doesn't answer. He realizes something. Getting up quickly, he walks around to the front of the building. He once again gets down on his hands and knees.

"Yes!" he exclaims out loud.

There, in the dirt, is a faint single footprint.

"Lestrade, come here!" he calls, excited. Lestrade walks up beside him.

"I found a footprint. Look, right here!" He points to the footprint in the dirt.

Lestrade is skeptical. "Dozens of officers have gone into this alley. It's probably just one of theirs," As skeptical as he is, Lestrade hopes John is right about the footprint. Right now it's their only clue.

"No," John shakes his head. "It can't be one of the officers'. It rained a little bit last night at around 10 pm, remember? If the time of death were 11 pm, then the ground would probably still be muddy when he came. By the time I came here, that mud would have been dry. Wilson told me he was only here this morning, so it can't be his either!"

Lestrade's eyes widen. "Then this footprint is either the killer's or the victim's!"

"Do we still have the victim's shoes here?" John is hopeful that this might be a helpful clue.

Lestrade shakes his head.

"So we can't compare the print?" John is disappointed.

"John, the victim wasn't wearing any shoes at all when we found him," Lestrade says.

"This is a shoe print, not a footprint. That means…" John doesn't finish, as one of the investigators on Lestrade's team walks up to the two.

"Sir, we dug up Mr. Holmes' casket," he states nervously.

"Yes, and? What did you find?" Lestrade inquires impatiently.

"Sir, Mr. Holmes' body was still there. Nobody dug him up at all,"

Lestrade stares at the officer in shock. "What, you mean…" he doesn't finish.

"This is insane," mumbles John.

Lestrade can't contain his confusion.

"There are two Sherlocks!"

* * *

**I hope you've enjoyed_ Encore _so far! I would appreciate any comments, suggestions, or reviews. ****Thanks for reading! **


	7. Chapter 7

John swings open the door to the Baker Street flat. Mrs. Hudson is sitting in the front entrance.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," says John. She is startled by his sudden appearance and whirls around to face him. Realizing who is there, she sighs and greets him.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. How has the investigation been going?" John studies Mrs. Hudson's face. It looks like she has been crying. Mrs. Hudson notices his keen stare and smiles.

"I'm fine, John. Now, come on, how is the investigation?" She's changing the subject. John takes this hint and stops staring at her.

He answers, "Honestly, I don't know what to tell you." Mrs. Hudson looks confused.

"What do you mean, you don't know what to tell me? Aren't you making progress in the case?"

"Well, I suppose we are. But this… this case is not exactly any normal case, and, by the nature of it… it's quite… daunting."

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes. She seems impatient and annoyed. "Dr. Watson, you can stop talking in riddles." John shakes his head.

"I'm afraid that for now the police don't have enough answers. It's… I'm sorry." With that, he quickly turns away and starts up the stairs to Sherlock's room. He's supposed to look through Sherlock's papers to see if he can find any answers, but right now that's the furthest thing from his mind.

He can't believe how he's just treated Mrs. Hudson. She's always been there, but now he feels like he's almost… betraying her. He tries to justify it.

Anyways, he doesn't have enough answers to take care of all of her questions anyways.

But, still, she is obviously upset about Sherlock.

But, then again, who wouldn't be?

John suddenly remembers that he is supposed to be helping examine the body. Well, bodies. He grabs his coat once again. He darts back down the stairs and rushes back past Mrs. Hudson, trying to avoid conversation. She takes the hint and keeps working.

* * *

As John walks toward the front door, Mary walks up to him. She gently puts her hand on his shoulder.

"John. I know you're busy, but… I… I thought of something." John is confused.

"What do you mean, Mary? You… thought of something about the case?" Mary nods slowly. She looks nervous but somewhat excited.

"Actually, yes. I did. You know, I was at the first scene. I found the body last week when we went to say goodbye to Sherlock."

"Yes," acknowledges John, curious.

"Well, today I went back up to his room to clean up and pack his things away. But then I remembered something from the room. When I first walked up there. When you ran into the room, I didn't follow you. I just stood at the door looking into the room."

"Yes?" John is now interested. "What did you see?"

Mary continues. "I didn't realize it was important then, but today when I came up here I realized that there was something the police missed."

"What do you mean, Mary? I don't think that the police missed anything. They searched the whole place for anything that might be evidence and didn't find anything."

Mary shakes her head. "John, the window was unlocked. It didn't seem very strange to me at the time, but it was definitely unlocked, and the curtains were open too. He always kept the curtains closed, you know. He hardly ever opened the windows. Why would he open the windows? It just doesn't make sense, and it's totally opposite to his normal behavior. I was thinking that maybe…" She is unsure, and doesn't finish her sentence. "I'm sorry. I'm wasting your time, John. I'm just being paranoid."

John quickly shakes his head. He takes her hand and stares at her with wide eyes.

"No! No, you aren't being paranoid. You're brilliant! You are brilliant! Of course the police did not notice it! They didn't know that Sherlock kept his windows closed, so this wouldn't have looked strange to them." He pauses for a moment. "But why wouldn't they have noticed the open window? That should have seemed strange to the police, surely."

Mary's eyes widen. "John, I think I know why the police didn't find the open window strange."

John is eager to know her theory. "Why? Why didn't they notice it?"

Mary almost laughs at John's childlike enthusiasm. "That day, the weather was quite nice. It was sunny outside, so I opened the windows downstairs. The police wouldn't have found it very strange for his windows in his room to be open because the rest of the windows were open too!"

John smiles at her. He embraces Mary tenderly.

"Mary, you are a genius! An absolute genius!" He's ecstatic.

Suddenly, John remembers that he is expected at the morgue.

"I'm sorry, Mary. I have to go. I'm supposed to be at his autopsy."

Mary nods. John once again hugs Mary.

"You are much smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know, Mary. Maybe you should come with me on a case sometime. You would be a serious help," he whispers to her tenderly. Mary smiles at him timidly.

John once again swings open the creaky front door and emerges into the golden sunlight outside. John's excitement quickly fades. He's excited that Mary has provided him with an important clue, but the complex nature of the situation quickly drains all of John's energy. Ordinarily, he would have appreciated a beautiful sunny day like this. It's not that common to have a cloudless afternoon like this in London.

But he doesn't notice this. In fact, the weather is probably the furthest thing from John's mind right now.

All he wants are answers. But, as walks, John realizes that answers are probably the least likely thing that he's going to find. After this examination, he'll probably have more questions.

And he's certainly not ready for them.

* * *

John absentmindedly pulls open the heavy door at the morgue. He walks in, still absorbed in his thoughts. He doesn't always come do the autopsies, but right now, he feels obligated.

What else can he do? Right now he wants answers, and he feels like this is the only way to get them. That is, if answers are really to be found.

His thoughts are interrupted.

"Dr. Watson," He quickly looks upward. Lestrade is standing in the morgue, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Good afternoon, Lestrade," he responds.

Really, it's anything but a good afternoon, but there's no reason to let his day get anyone else's down. Suddenly, it occurs to John that Lestrade has likely had as puzzling and difficult a day as he has. It _is_ his investigation that led to the discovery.

John shrugs, and then he shakes the thought off.

"Have you begun the examination yet?" he asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "We knew that you would want to be here, being a doctor, and…" he stops, not knowing exactly what to say. Lestrade feels like he's walking on thin ice. The subject is particularly… delicate. John sighs.

"You don't have to worry. I'm fine. I went to war, you know. I can handle this."

Lestrade nods and continues his sentence. "Well, to be completely honest, you knew Holmes the best and we thought that you might like to see anything we find out firsthand."

John nods. "Thank you."

Lestrade smiles slightly. "All that, and also that we had hoped you may be able to clarify a few things. Thank you for coming," Lestrade gestures silently towards a door at the back that is slightly ajar.

John walks through quietly, and Lestrade follows. They walk into a small room with two tables. Each one has on it the shape of a body covered with a white sheet.

"Have you even been at an autopsy before, John?" asks Lestrade, anxious.

"No, but I'll be fine. This isn't the first time I've seen a corpse. I was an army doctor." Lestrade nods, but his mind is still not at ease.

"Are you ready to begin, Dr. Watson?" questions a man standing over the body who appears to be the coroner.

"Yes, I'm ready," replies John. But, honestly, he doesn't know if he is ready for this. The autopsy begins.

* * *

As the sheet is pulled back off the bodies, John's mind is in total turmoil. This all just feels wrong. Sherlock's body shouldn't be here. Sherlock should be the one helping with autopsies, not the one being autopsied.

He shouldn't be dead.

Both bodies are uncovered. As John finally sees the two corpses side by side, he is overwhelmed. They look almost exactly alike. When they were found, however, they were wearing different clothes.

One of the corpses was wearing a tattered white shirt with muddied gray trousers. The other was dressed similarly; however, their shirt was brown and they were wearing a jacket.

This strikes John as strange; Sherlock never dressed this way unless he was wearing a disguise. Sherlock's clothes were much more sophisticated than the attire found on both corpses.

John stares at the bodies. He is totally dumbfounded by the fact that he is looking at two corpses that are virtually identical. He walks closer to one of the corpses, the one that had been found in the alley.

He inspects the face; it's identical to Sherlock's. Suddenly, John notices something on the side of the face. He kneels down to take a closer look at the body. The more he looks at the body, the more it is evident; there are scars on the side of the face that look like they were made by stitches.

"Lestrade, look at this," he mumbles. The inspector leans down to look at the body.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" Lestrade questions.

"These," says John, gesturing to the raised scars on the edge of Sherlock's face. Lestrade sees them. He frowns. "Wait, what are those?"

John quickly responds. "I have no idea. I've never noticed them before. I don't think those were there when I last saw him. But maybe… I could have overlooked them, I guess."

The medical examiner walks over beside the two. "What are you two looking at? Can I take a look please?" John and Lestrade quickly move out of his way. The medical examiner carefully inspects the scars.

"These marks definitely look like they were made by stitches. But these definitely aren't any normal stitches. These are kind of rough, like maybe they were done by someone who's not a doctor. And they might not have been done with the proper equipment either. It looks like they would have been pretty painful."

John stares at the jagged scars for a moment. He's completely confused. Why would Sherlock have had any sort of surgery or stitches? John didn't think he had seen any cuts on Sherlock's face; he had definitely not noticed any that would have needed stitches.

John wonders if the other corpse has them too; this could be a crucial clue! He quickly moves over to the second body. Kneeling down quickly, John carefully examines the head.

The uneven scars are clearly present on this corpse too.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Wait, so they're on both bodies? I wonder what they're from. Do you think Sherlock tried to do his own stitches? That could possibly be why they are so rough and uneven. But that still doesn't explain why he would have needed stitches in the first place," he says.

John contemplates this possibility. It does seem like something Sherlock might do. He was always doing experiments on himself, so the stitches may make sense if they were part of an experiment.

Maybe… John suddenly stands up.

"Inspector, I think I may have a good guess about what these scars may be from."

Lestrade is surprised. He stares at John curiously. "What do you mean? You've seen this type of scar before?"

John nods. "Actually, yes. I think I have. One of my patients had this sort of scar. It was when I was working as an army doctor."

"Well, what was it from?" Lestrade is hopeful that this might be a clue. "The man, my patient, had been burned badly in a fire. His scars were from some experimental technique for facial reconstruction, but they were a little bit cleaner than these. More professional looking."

Lestrade stares at John in disbelief. "So you think that…" he can't finish his sentence. John nods slowly.

"I don't think either of these bodies are actually Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**Hello again! I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! I'd really appreciate any suggestions, comments, or reviews.**

**Nimara- Thanks for your suggestion! Mary's definitely going to be in the story a lot more later ;-)**


	8. Chapter 8

The heavy door of the morgue slams shut behind John as he exits the building. Lestrade walks beside him. John is excited to tell Lestrade what Mary had revealed.

"Lestrade, Mary told me something that she realized about the first crime scene."

Lestrade seems confused. "What, like a clue? I'm sure that the police searched the whole place."

"Well, they did search the whole place. But she noticed something that the police wouldn't have."

"Well, then, what did she see? And why wouldn't we have noticed it?" asks Lestrade, skeptical.

"Mary realized that the window was unlocked," John responds.

"And how exactly did she notice that?" Lestrade stops walking and looks at John. He doesn't think that the police could have missed that.

John shrugs. "She was standing in the room when I found the body. She probably saw it then."

Lestrade quickly shakes his head. "No, no. We would have definitely noticed that. Open windows in crime scenes are something that the police always make a note of. There was no open window there. There couldn't have been, or we would have noticed it."

John shakes his head. "No, Mary didn't see an _open_ window. She just saw it unlocked."

"Why is that the strange? Plenty of people keep their windows unlocked."

"Well, plenty of people might, but Sherlock _never_ opened his windows. Never. And he didn't open his curtains either. Mary thinks she knows why the police didn't notice it, though. She says that the reason you probably didn't see that the window was unlocked was because she'd opened the other windows. It was a nice day outside."

Lestrade is skeptical. "I don't think we can count open curtains as a clue. Sherlock could have just decided to open the window that day. There are too many things that could have led to an unlocked window apart from an intruder. I can't really use that as evidence. I'm sorry John." John is extremely frustrated. Why can't Lestrade see that this is a clue?

"But, Lestrade, it's a clue! Can't you see? He never opened the window. He didn't open it! It was the person who killed him who opened the window."

Lestrade sighs. "I'm sorry, John. I just don't have any other evidence supporting that theory. I know you want it to be a clue. So do I. But I can't just go and fabricate evidence. I need the truth." With that, Lestrade heads back in the direction of the morgue.

John is glad he doesn't have to go back inside. He is happy to get away from the bodies, as his mind is now tormented with terrible theories about the cause of the disappearance of his friend. A sickening feeling rests on him: Sherlock is either dead, being held against his will, or hiding from someone. John seriously hopes that he's not dead, but the chances aren't good for Sherlock still being alive. He's been gone for more than a week already.

As John walks alone along the sidewalk, he can't help imagining terrible possibilities. What if Sherlock is being tortured? His mind spins with horrific images and theories. He tries to calm himself. Maybe Sherlock is just in hiding. But that doesn't explain anything else, like the fact that two bodies that look just like him have been found. His mind just keeps going back to terrible theories about his friend's disappearance.

"Doctor Watson!" A loud voice snaps John out of his daze.

"Doctor Watson! Wait! Wait a second!" John stops abruptly and whirls around to face the direction of the voice. He can't find the person calling him, but he hears the directions the voice is coming from.

"Doctor! Come quick! Over here!" John still can't find the person. He walks in the direction from where the sound is coming.

"Doctor! Please, I need you! Please, it's an emergency!" John breaks into a run. He follows the voice, trying to locate its source.

"Are you hurt?" he yells worriedly. The voice doesn't respond, but John continues to hear the desperate pleas for help. They seem like they may be coming from a nearby alley. John rushes speedily into the alleyway. He sees a figure kneeling in the shadows. This is clearly where the calls for help are coming from. He quickly sprints to the figure.

"Oh…" John is shocked. The kneeling figure is a child. "Are you hurt? Look at me, are you hurt? What's wrong?" he asks, immensely concerned.

The boy doesn't respond, but he does stop whimpering. John's army instincts and his medical experience kick in. He gently reaches for the boy's arm.

Suddenly, John feels a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't move. Don't even move, Dr. Watson, or else…" A low, growling voice commands. The unfinished threat fills John with dread. In front of John, the boy hastily rises to his feet. He avoids looking at John, seeming guilty. He walks behind John, probably to collect some kind of payment for his performance. The boy dashes out of the alley before John can get a good look at him.

John is completely shocked by how naïve he's been. He allowed himself to be lured into a dark alley alone. John feels embarrassed for being so trusting, especially after Sherlock mysteriously disappeared.

'Is the same thing going to happen to me?' he thinks, panicking. He gets a sinking feeling in his chest. He is obviously in immense danger right now. This man behind him clearly isn't just looking for money or somebody to rob. He wasn't just a random thief; this much was clear by the cleverness of his plan. No, the man had planned this out just to lure Dr. Watson into his trap for some different reason, whatever it may be.

John suddenly realizes something chilling. The man had known precisely where he would be at precisely what time. Not only that, but he had also known that John was a doctor and known that he couldn't walk by a hurt child without trying to help. In order to know all of this, the man had to have been following him for several days. The thought that he and Mary have had someone spying on them for days is completely terrifying.

John tries to escape his thoughts. He needs to have a clear mind right now, as he is in danger. John stays completely still; the alley is totally silent.

John suddenly feels something cold and hard on his neck.

The blade of a knife.

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. What if… what if this is the man who had killed Sherlock? Is he going to be the next to die? Why does the man want him? The choking silence is suddenly broken as the gruff voice speaks again.

"Okay, Dr. Watson, you are going to do exactly as I say. Got it?" John doesn't respond.

"I asked you a question!" the man snarls. John nods weakly. He squeezes his eyes shut, completely terrified.

"Good," The man continues. "Now, Doctor, I want you to put your hands on the wall in front of you. Come on, do it." John complies.

"Good." The man walks around to John's side. He reaches into the jacket that John is wearing and pulls out his revolver.

John now feels hopeless. That revolver was his only chance, his lifeline. And now it's gone. Not only that, but now the man has both a gun _and _a knife.

"Excellent," says his captor. "Now, Doctor, I want to make one thing clear. If, at any point, you make any attempt to call for help, or try to escape, I will not hesitate, even for a moment, to kill you. Do you understand?" John nods, but he is silently thinking of any possible ways to get away. The man seems to have read his mind.

"Doctor, I'm not sure that you really do understand what I mean. Or maybe you do understand me, but I don't think that's you're going to listen. Am I right?" John doesn't respond.

"Not talking to me, huh? Well, maybe I can change that. Do you need some proof? Do I not seem serious enough to you? Well, I can give you proof that I'm serious if that's what you'd like." The man's cool and deceptive tone sends shivers down John's spine. For some reason, the voice seems slightly familiar to him.

"Oh, I have an idea! Maybe you think I wouldn't actually hurt you. Is that it? Well, I suppose I could give you some proof for that if you'd like." With that, he holds the knife closer on John's neck.

"No! Please! I believe you," cries John shakily.

"Wonderful!" the man says. "Now, you can open your eyes, you know."

John didn't realize that he'd been squeezing his eyes shut the whole time. He realizes that he hasn't even seen his captor yet. He slowly opens his eyes, but he doesn't move. He is paralyzed by his fear. John finally gets the courage to speak.

"Who… who are you?"

"Who I am is not important," he replies cryptically. "What you really want to know is who sent me." John is surprised. The thought hadn't crossed his mind that this man could be working for someone else; he had just thought that the man had something against him personally.

"Who sent you, then?" questions John, curious.

"Oh, yeah, like I'm really going to just tell you who sent me here. Nice try, Doctor," the man chuckles.

"What does he want then?"

"Not sure what he has against you, exactly. But I'm here to deliver a message," he responds.

John is even more confused. He's just here to deliver a message? Why couldn't the man just go up to him and tell him whatever he needed to know. The man speaks again.

"Now, turn around, but slowly." John doesn't move.

"Did you hear me? Turn around, I said!" John hesitantly obeys, turning around. His expression of fear and worry changes to one of utter confusion. He cannot believe his eyes.

The man he sees in front of him is James Wilson.

**Bit of a cliffhanger there... Don't worry, the next chapter should clear things up a little bit! ;-) I really appreciate any comments, suggestions, or reviews! ****Thanks so much for reading _Encore_!**


	9. Chapter 9

"Wilson? You are James Wilson, aren't you?" John questions, utterly confused. The man smiles slyly.

"Ah, so you do recognize me! I am indeed James Wilson. Ok, well, not exactly. But I suppose you'd know me as James Wilson. But, obviously, that's not really my name. I suppose I am not really that important right now, though."

John is furious. "So you used a murder to spy on me? Did you kill the man in the alleyway too? How heartless _are_ you?"

Wilson interrupts John. "Shhhhhh…"

John quickly stops talking.

"Thank you, that's much better," Wilson says, "You may be angry right now, but let me remind you of something. I have a gun and a knife. You are completely unarmed. If you ask me, I'd say it would be in your best interest to refrain from angering me. Wouldn't you agree?" He grins cruelly at John.

John nods weakly. "You… you said you had a message for me, didn't you?"

"Yes. I do have a message. My orders are to read you the message, and then you can ask me questions, if you desire to do so. I don't know everything about this, though, so I probably won't be much help." John nods his head. Wilson, keeping his eyes on John, pulls a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket of his coat. He carefully unfolds it. John tries to see the writing on the paper, but Wilson shakes his head.

"No. My boss specifically told me that you are not to see the writing or hold the paper. He doesn't want any unnecessary complications. Don't try to see it. Things won't end up well for you."

John sighs. "Fine. I'm not going to try."

"Good! Now, are you listening?"

"Yes…" John is extremely uneasy. He is curious, yet worried. What if Wilson's boss is the person who killed both 'Sherlocks'? Is the same thing going to happen to him? Most of all, John wants to know what message is so urgent and secret that it would require such extreme precautions. Maybe this is good. Maybe he's going to find out something about where Sherlock is. But for some reason, John doesn't really want to know. Finding out that neither of the corpses were actually Sherlock had inspired a little bit of hope in John. What if he actually is dead? John doesn't want to feel the pain he had felt when he thought Sherlock had died.

Wilson interrupts his thoughts.

"Okay, so this is what it says. '_Hello, John. You don't know me, but I know you. I know you quite well, actually. I would introduce myself, but I suppose that I would prefer to do that in person sometime._"

This sentence sends chills up John's spine. The man who murdered both 'Sherlocks' is planning on meeting him? Does this mean that he is going to be kidnapped or killed too? Wilson continues reading the letter.

"_I have been keeping an eye on you lately, but I suppose you would probably have realized that by now because of the events that have just taken place. I am going to be honest. I have liked what I've seen in you. You're a very interesting person, Doctor John Watson. You are certainly a clever man. I want to see just how clever you are, and I plan on doing so. _

_I apologize. I'm probably confusing you by now. I suppose I should answer some of your questions. Before I do that, I must apologize for my means of delivering this message to you. I know that it is quite unconventional, but it was necessary to take extra precautions to prevent anyone else from hearing my message. I'd like to clear up some things about these murders you have been investigating. I am guessing that by know you've realized that these murders that you've been investigating aren't typical. You are probably very confused by the whole ordeal, and I don't blame you for this. _

_I am pleasantly surprised, however, by how well you have fared throughout the whole investigation. I was wrong about you. You are tougher than I suspected. But, anyways, I would like to clear a few things up and try to answer some of your questions. _

_Although you've probably guessed this by now, I would still like to tell you that the man you know as James Wilson works for me. He has worked for me the whole time that you have been investigating the murders. In fact, he has been one of my most valuable sources of information. And yes, in case you were wondering, I did hire him to get you to come to the murder scene. And that brings me to another question. _

_Did I kill both 'Sherlocks'? _

_Yes. I did. _

_Well, I didn't actually do it myself. But I did hire somebody to do it. Anyways, by now, you have probably realized that the corpses weren't actually Sherlock. So, it's time to answer your most pressing question. Where is the real Sherlock?_"

John is nervous. He doesn't really know if he wants to find out what has happened to Sherlock. What if he actually is dead?

"I'm sure that you have been wanting to know this since the second murder. So, I will go ahead and tell you. Sherlock Holmes is not dead."

John sighs. He is relieved, but this relief doesn't last long. Sherlock is still missing.

"_Now, I'm sure you are wondering something: if he's not dead, then where is he? Well, I'll tell you. I have Sherlock Holmes. I finally got him. It wasn't easy, to tell you the truth. He's extremely clever. In fact, he's almost as smart as me. _

_Almost, but not quite. _

_You are probably wondering how I managed to capture someone so intelligent. Well, I did it almost the same way that I tricked you. _

_A man named James Wilson showed up when you were away with Mary. He said that he had discovered a corpse in an alleyway. As you may suspect, Mr. Holmes couldn't restrain his curiosity. He came with Wilson willingly. Once they arrived, Wilson led him behind the building where you found the second victim. At that point, Sherlock had already realized that this was a trap. He tried to escape, but I had expected that and had stationed eight of my best men there. Of course, Holmes couldn't overpower that many people, and he was knocked unconscious. Then I had some of my men stage a crime scene in your flat. _

_And yes, Doctor Watson. They did come in through the window. I must say, your fiancée is quite observant, by the way._"

'Of course they came in that way! But Lestrade wouldn't believe me…' thinks John. John thinks that it is eerie how the person who wrote the letter knew exactly what Mary had told him. Someone must have been watching the two of them the whole time they were talking.

"_I am sure that you want to know how your friend is doing. He is still alive, as I have already said. I won't say much else about him. I'll leave you to your own imagination… _

_All I'll say is that he's finally getting the pain he deserves._"

John winces, trying to suppress his own imagination. Obviously, the author of the letter was trying to get in his head, and John doesn't want to let him.

"_So, now, I suppose the question is this: what's next? Well, I can promise you one thing. The worst is yet to come. Listen closely, because what you are about to hear is extremely important. _

_There will be more. You are going to keep finding more 'Sherlocks'. There are going to be more victims. _

_Do you want to prevent this from happening? I'm assuming that you do want to save more people, right? Well, there are a few things that you have to do. First of all, I need all investigation on this case to stop completely. Now, don't take this the wrong way. I'm not scared of Scotland Yard. They aren't really a threat to me._

_ But, I suppose you have learned a little bit from Holmes. Scotland Yard probably has too. And that could be a bit dangerous. I'm not afraid of any of you, but I do want privacy. Additionally, I want money. It you give me enough money, I might consider releasing Holmes. I know that you want that. I would strongly advise that you consider my demands._

_ Because there's one last thing. _

_I've already told you that there will be more murdered 'Sherlocks'._

_ But if you don't hurry, one of the dead 'Sherlocks' that you find is going to be the body of the real Sherlock Holmes._

_ And once he's dead, you'll be next_."

**Thanks for reading _Encore_! I hope you have liked it! I really appreciate any suggestions, comments, and reviews! **

**Nimara Portmac- I'm glad you are enjoying the story! Thank you for your reviews ;-) **


	10. Chapter 10

John stares blankly off into the alley. He doesn't know what to think about the letter. This should be good news, shouldn't it? Sherlock is alive! But even though he is alive, Sherlock is still a captive of some bloodthirsty criminal. John doesn't see how he can be at ease. And there are going to be more victims! He wishes that this nightmare would just end. But even if the authorities met the demands given in the letter, it's likely that Holmes would still not be released. The person who wrote the letter said that he "might consider" releasing Holmes.

Might.

And John doesn't exactly trust this person to be honest and actually release Holmes. He doesn't really seem like the kind of person to honor any promises he has made. After all, he went to such extreme lengths to trick John.

However, a little glimmer of hope still remains in John. He still wants to think that he might see Sherlock again.

Wilson interrupts John's thoughts.

"Hey, Doctor, you're being awfully silent… you know, for a man who's just had his life threatened."

John doesn't answer.

"Well, Doctor, I really know what the boss has against you, but if I was you, I would give him what he wants. He's not the kind to show mercy to anyone. But I suppose he does seem to be interested by you. Maybe he'll go easy on you..." Wilson chuckles. "Yeah, I probably shouldn't say that. I don't want to get your hopes up. The boss is not going to go easy on you. He never does."

John tries not to let Wilson's threats get to his head. He thinks that he should probably try to get some more information from Wilson. He is completely terrified, but he thinks that getting as much information as he possible could be helpful in trying to find Sherlock.

"I'm… I'm sorry, but if you don't mind me asking, how _did_ you stage the scene in the apartment without leaving any clues except an unlocked window?"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "How did we stage the scene? Well, it's not like this is the first time we've had to stage a crime scene. And we're pretty familiar with the methods of the police. My boss isn't just going to ask a bunch of amateurs to stage the scene of a high-profile "suicide.""

John sighs. He had been hoping to get more clues out of that question. He's actually somewhat surprised by Wilson's answer, though. He didn't know that there were people that specialized in staging faked crime scenes, and it seems scary to him that Sherlock's captor would be so high in the criminal hierarchy that he would be able to hire specialized crime scene "stagers."

"Okay then, how did you trick Sherlock into coming with you?"

Wilson shakes his head impatiently. "What do you mean? I already told you. I just told him I found a body…"

John interrupts, "No, but I know Sherlock. He wouldn't have just gone with you. I would have expected him to notice something about you that would have made him realize that you were lying. He's really good at that, so I just don't understand why he would have been tricked."

Wilson shakes his head. "You assume that I don't know this. I actually know quite a lot about Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I haven't just been watching you, you know. Mr. Holmes was actually my first target. I suppose that that's the answer to your question. I took extra precautions because I was aware of how observant Mr. Holmes is. My boss actually insisted that he himself inspect my attire and me before I went to Mr. Holmes. In spite of all of that, though, I think that Sherlock did sense that something was going on. I'm not really sure how, to be honest. He is so incredibly smart. I think that one of the reasons that he went with me was because he sensed that something was wrong and he wanted to know what it was. He did come with a gun, which presented a bit of a problem to me. Normally, with other targets, I would exchange their weapon with a fake or unloaded gun while they were not looking. It was clear to me that this would not work with Mr. Holmes. He is far too observant for that. It wasn't easy, but the other guys and I all had weapons too, so we managed to subdue him."

Surprised, John doesn't speak. It didn't occur to him that Wilson must have a lot of experience in order to trick both Sherlock and John so flawlessly but Wilson made it clear that this wasn't the first time he had needed to disarm somebody.

This could actually be helpful to police. If they find any other crimes in which Wilson was involved, whether as a suspect or a witness, the police might be able to find some person or place in common. This could be a crucial clue in helping locate Sherlock.

"I…I was just wondering something. Have you seen him… Sherlock, I mean… since when you captured him? I mean, do you know how he is doing…" John's voice trails off.

Wilson laughs cruelly. "Ah, there it is. I knew you were going to ask me that question at some point. Yes, I have seen him."

"And? What are they doing to him?"

"I don't think…" A loud voice suddenly interrupts Wilson.

"John? John are you here?"

John's eyes widen. A slight bit of hope reenters his mind.

"John? This is Lestrade. Are you here?"

Wilson grabs John's wrist. "Do _not_ respond, Doctor," he whispers.

"John?" Lestrade calls again. He is obviously getting closer.

John can sense Wilson's anxiety. It appears that he was not prepared to deal with any interruptions.

"He said he'd make sure the inspector wouldn't suspect anything," Wilson whispers angrily to himself.

John can now hear footsteps getting progressively closer. Based on the footsteps, it sounds like Lestrade isn't alone.

"John?" A different voice suddenly calls.

"No, no, no, no…" John whispers. He is completely terrified by the voice that he hears.

The voice is clearly Mary's.

"No! Why did she have to come? Why couldn't she have just stayed at home? This is all my fault… I should have been more careful…" John's anguished whispers slowly grow louder.

"No!" Wilson warns. "Don't speak! Stop it right now!"

John shakes his head. If anything happened to Mary, he would never be able to forgive himself. He can't let her get hurt.

"I'm warning you, Doctor Watson. Do not say a word."

John doesn't care what happens; he just knows he needs to warn Mary.

"Mary! Don't come! Please, leave!" he yells loudly.

"John? Is that you? What's going on?" Lestrade calls.

John realizes that his warning to Mary has backfired. Now she and Lestrade are certain that he is here, so of course they are going to come help him.

"You idiot! I'm going to…" growls Wilson. Wilson's livid glare terrifies John. What is going to happen to him now?

Before he can respond, John feels the blade of the knife on his wrist.

"No! Please, I didn't mean to… I just didn't want Mary to…" pleads John weakly.

"No!" interrupts Wilson. "You've messed things up enough for me already!" John closes his eyes, trying to calm himself down. He cringes.

John cries out as Wilson slits his wrists.

"John! No!" He opens his eyes as he hears Mary's voice. He sees Mary, who is frozen in shock. Lestrade runs toward John.

"No. Stop. Don't come any closer." Wilson cautions. Lestrade quickly halts as Wilson raises John's gun. John winces as he feels the gun pressed to his head.

"Throw your weapon to me. Do it. Now. Or I shoot Doctor Watson." Lestrade obeys. The gun slides out of Lestrade's reach and John's hope completely dissolves.

His fate is inevitable.

And all John can do now is wait.

**Thanks so much for reading _Encore! _I hope you have enjoyed it so far! I'm soooooooo sorry I haven't updated in a while. I would really appreciate any reviews, comments, or suggestions.**


	11. Chapter 11

John's mind is tormented by a storm of swirling emotions. He shivers, but not because of the cold.

Blood streams from the cut in John's wrist, and his consciousness is fading rapidly. He isn't quite sure why, but he pushes himself to try maintain consciousness. Although he is aware that it would be better if he were shot while unconscious, he feels obligated to try stay awake for some reason. He doesn't want Mary to have to see him like this, so he wants to be as strong as possible, even until the very end.

Cautiously, Lestrade starts to speak. "Please, let Doctor Watson go. He… he isn't a threat, he's unarmed. Just tell me. What do I have to do? I'll do what you want, just leave him alone."

Wilson shakes his head. "No. I will not. Because as soon as I do, you would proceed to arrest me. And that is NOT going to happen, do you understand? I will NOT be outwitted by a stupid idiot who calls himself a policeman. I am smarter than you. All of you. So I will not be humiliated like this. Never."

Suddenly, a look of bewilderment appears on Lestrade's face. He unconsciously steps forward.

His penetrating stare confuses Wilson.

"Stop! Don't come any closer!" Wilson is clearly surprised.

"You. I recognize you… You're James Wilson, aren't you? You heartless…" Lestrade's voice trails off as he tries to contain his anger.

Wilson nods proudly. "Yup. And I fooled you all. You didn't expect a thing. Although I must say, I'm not terribly surprised by your ignorance. Scotland Yard isn't exactly the most intelligent group of people."

Lestrade's eyes flash with fury. He clenches his fists, trying to hold back his anger. Any outburst on his part could cause Wilson to shoot John.

An evil smile forms on Wilson's face. He is clearly taking pleasure in watching Lestrade try to stay calm. He chuckles.

"You are just proving my point right now. Just another policeman, aren't you? You're so caught up in your own childish anger that you've not even paying attention to the person you are trying to save," he taunts. Lestrade's gaze shifts back to John.

"John…" He gasps slightly, surprised by the severity of John's wound. Guilt invades his mind. Maybe Wilson is right. He isn't being a good inspector or a good friend right now.

John struggles to a sitting position and looks at Lestrade.

"Inspector," he stammers, finding it hard to speak. Lestrade flinches empathetically as he watches John. John continues. "Don't let him get in your head. He's wrong. He's just trying to distract you. Just listen to me. It… it doesn't matter what happens… to me. Just… keep Mary safe. Don't let Wilson get away. Tell Mary I love her, okay? Keep her safe for me. Just leave."

Lestrade shakes his head. "No, I'm not just going to let that happen. Don't talk like that." He looks back at Wilson furiously.

"What do you want? Just tell me what you would like me to do. I'll do anything. Just let Doctor Watson go. Please, just let him go."

Silent, Wilson bites his lip. A few seconds pass before he speaks.

"You want to know what I want? Well, I'll tell you. First of all, I will not be arrested. If you want Doctor Watson to stay alive, you will let me go. And you will not follow me."

He pauses and grins. "Hmmmmm…. What else do I want?" He says in a mocking tone.

"Oh! Yes. You will resign your position as Inspector for Scotland Yard. But before you do, you will fire every single policeman that worked the case. Every last one. You will discard all evidence that you have collected from the case. All of it, including the bodies. And I want all the money from every bank in London."

"That… I don't know…" Lestrade is shocked by Wilson's demands. There is no way that he can meet them, but if he says so, Wilson is sure to shoot John.

"Please, Wilson. You know… Maybe I can do something else? Isn't there anything else you want? I'll quit, if that's what it takes. I just…"

"No." John interrupts quickly. "I… I don't want you to quit. I don't want you to meet any of his demands. I don't want you to listen to him. Just let him do it. Please… please, I'm begging you. What are you going to accomplish? He'll… he'll just get away. He'll probably hurt someone else. I don't care… what happens to me. Just make sure that Mary is safe. And don't… don't let him get away. You can't. Please…" His voice gets softer as his condition continues to worsen.

Lestrade is silent. He doesn't know how to respond. Of course he doesn't want to just let Wilson go. The man is threatening his friend and, based on the circumstances, he probably had something to do with the murder in the alley. Maybe he even murdered both 'Sherlocks'. It would be torturous to let a man like that just get away without any punishment. Especially since there is a high chance that he will commit another crime.

'But what choice do I have?' he asks himself. If he doesn't let Wilson go, John will be shot. And after that, there's a high chance that Wilson will shoot both him and Mary. But even if he let's Wilson get away, there's virtually no chance that he will be able to meet the rest of Wilson's demands. And he's pretty sure that Wilson knows that. He just doesn't know what to do.

"Please… Just let him go…" Lestrade pleads. There's really nothing he can do now. He feels completely hopeless.

Wilson shakes his head. "No. I will not. You have two choices. Either you give me what I want, or Doctor Watson dies. It's that easy, Inspector. Now choose. Which will it be?"

Lestrade bites his lip. "I… I can't..." he moans.

"Fine then," declares Wilson. He tightens his grip on the gun. "You don't have to. I will."

"NO!" wails Lestrade. He lunges for the gun. John cringes.

A gunshot echoes through the alley.

Horrified, Lestrade looks down at Wilson. What he sees shocks him.

Wilson is slumped over on the floor of the alley.

Wilson, not John.

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thanks so much to Nimara Portmac and ThePenguinApocalypse for your reviews! I really appreciate any reviews, comments, or suggestions. Thanks for reading ;-)**


	12. Chapter 12

Trembling, John slowly opens his eyes. He's alive. He's really still alive. How is this possible?

He heard the gunshot. It couldn't have been Lestrade, could it? Lestrade had surrendered his weapon. He looks upwards and sees Lestrade staring at him, wide-eyed and obviously confused as well. This confirms John's suppositions.

Lestrade didn't fire the gun. Then who did?

"Wilson," he whispers to himself, suddenly aware of the danger that he is still in.

"What… what is going on? How…" his voice trails off as he sees Wilson's body sprawled face-down across the alley floor. A large pool of blood begins to form around Wilson's body. There appears to be a gunshot wound on his head. But how could he have been shot? Who fired the bullet? Forgetting completely about his own wound, John attempts to stand. He is weak and unable to do so, and immediately remembers that he is injured. As John begins to calm down a little bit, his injury becomes more of a problem. The fear he had been feeling had eclipsed the pain of his wound, but now John feels the pain. He collapses, in tremendous pain and too faint from loss of blood to sit up any longer.

Lestrade rushes to his side. "John! John, can you hear me?"

John replies feebly, "Yes… I can. It's not that bad…" he tries to pull himself up to a sitting position again.

"No, don't do that. Just stay down and try to stay still," Lestrade advises, uncertain. He's not exactly sure of what to do. John cannot contain his curiosity.

"Lestrade… how? I mean… who? I don't understand… He was about to shoot me!"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I don't know. I really don't know what happened. But it looks like someone shot him, somehow. Before he shot you. But that doesn't matter right now, John. You're hurt." Lestrade looks around for a moment trying to decide what to do about John's injury. He pulls off the scarf he had been wearing and wraps it tightly around John's bleeding wrists, tying it to keep it to keep the makeshift bandage in place. "We need to get some proper bandages. I need to call a doctor, and obviously I need to bring some more police out here to take care of… the body, and all that. But that would mean I'd have to leave you here alone…"

A voice suddenly interrupts, "No, that's fine. You can go. I'll stay here with John." John looks upward and sees Mary, standing next to Lestrade. She looks okay, but she is clearly shaken.

John's eyes widen as he notices that she is tightly clutching a gun in her hands.

"Mary…" John questions, shocked. "Was it you? Did you have that the whole time?" Mary doesn't respond. She appears to be holding back tears. Lestrade notices the gun in Mary's hands but doesn't say anything. He seems hesitant to leave, but he knows that he can't really do anything for John, and Mary _did_ offer to stay with him.

"I shouldn't be gone for long," he says. He hurries out of the alley, leaving John and Mary alone. When Lestrade is gone, John begins to ask questions.

"Mary, was it you? You're the one the shot him, aren't you?" Mary bites her lip and nods weakly, fighting to hold back her tears. John immediately feels sorry for being so insensitive.

"Mary, thank you. You saved my life. Thank you so much. I'm so sorry…" Mary can't hold back her tears any longer, and she begins to sob. She sits down next to John, burying her head in her hands. John realizes how terrible she must feel right now. She just shot and killed someone. It was to save John's life, but she still killed Wilson. She wasn't prepared for any of this. How could she be? Nobody was expecting Wilson to turn out to be a murderer.

John stays quiet for a little while; he doesn't know what to say to Mary. He has so many questions for her, but she is clearly not ready for them. After a few minutes, Mary's sobs subside. John looks up at her, and Mary nods, silently telling him that she's okay and ready to answer his questions. John considers it, but he decides not to ask Mary any of his questions, even though there's so much he wants to know. Both of them are in shock right now, and he doesn't want to make her have to think about what just happened. She probably feels guilty enough already. John remains quiet.

Mary suddenly breaks the silence. "I had the gun with me the whole time. I brought your other gun with me when I left Baker Street, just in case something happened, because I was worried when you didn't come back from the morgue. I know you don't want to bother me with your questions, but I thought you'd want to know that." John smiles slightly, although in pain and struggling to stay conscious. All of a sudden he hears more voices.

"He's back, John. Lestrade's here, and it looks like he's brought some more police," Mary explains. Lestrade runs up to John, obviously concerned.

"He's over here! He's still bleeding a lot," he calls to a man who John supposes is a doctor. The doctor hurries over to John and kneels down next to him. He quickly opens a large leather bag. He unties the scarf that had been used as a makeshift bandage. Mary gasps, realizing how severely hurt John actually is. She moves out of the way so that the doctor can work. The doctor begins tightly wrapping John's wounds with a bandage.

John cringes. The doctor begins to talk.

"You should be fine. We just need to stop the bleeding," he reassures. John nods.

"Oh, by the way," the doctor adds, "I'm Simon Phillips. You're Doctor John Watson, right?"

"Yes," John replies weakly.

"Okay, John. We need to get you out of here and to the hospital."

John doesn't respond. He's struggling to stay conscious. His vision begins to fade and starts to black out. He still hears Simon and Lestrade's voices, although they sound soft and far away.

"Is he going to be okay?"

"I'm not sure. It's pretty bad, but I think he'll be better once he wakes up."

John feels himself being lifted into the back of some sort of carriage. He hears voices once again.

"What on earth happened to him anyways?"

"I honestly don't know how all of it happened. I haven't gotten a chance to ask him about any of that yet. His fiancée came down to the morgue because John never came back after he looked at the bodies from a murder case he was working on. I went to look for him, and I found him in this alley. There was a man holding a knife to his throat, and he started to demand all of these insane things. I couldn't do anything about it. The man slit John's wrists to try and pressure me into giving him what he wanted, but I couldn't. His demands were impossible. So the man was about to shoot John when…" he doesn't finish, uncertain.

"When what? What happened?"

"Someone shot the man in the head."

The voices fade as the door of the carriage is shut, and John loses consciousness.

**Thanks for reading, I hope you liked this chapter! I'd love it if you'd leave a review, comment, or suggestion :)**

**(Oh, and by the way, Sherlock Holmes is going to be coming into the story very, very soon!)**


	13. Chapter 13

"One week."

No response.

"I've been here for a week already, and nobody has told me anything about what you brought me here for."

Sherlock looks around the room at the men standing guard.

"Who are you working for? But of course you won't tell me, will you?" He sighs. He leans against the wall and looks around, talking to himself quietly.

"Concrete walls. Concrete floor. No windows. A single door, locking from the outside. Seems like a basement. But a basement where?" He is frustrated by the lack of possible clues to where he is.

"This would have been a lot easier if I'd been conscious during the trip here." He sits down, covering his head. Think. This room must contain some sort of clue. He has plenty of theories, but he's disadvantaged; he can't confirm any of them with facts. He can't really get any facts at all: he's chained to the wall and the room is dark. Regardless of this, he's not worried. Not exactly. He's always up for a challenge, and this certainly seems like it's going to be challenging.

A few silent minutes pass. Suddenly, Sherlock hears a key turn in the lock of the door, and the door swings open. A man walks in and whispers something to one of the guards. That guard walks up to Sherlock.

"He's asked to see you now," the man states in a gruff voice. He pulls out a key and unlocks the chain, putting a pair of handcuffs on Sherlock's wrists. Sherlock doesn't resist. He's far too curious as to why this man, whoever he is, wants to see him.

"Come on," says the man, and he roughly shoves Sherlock out of the room. He enters long hallway. It is dimly lit and has no windows at all. Sherlock looks around the hallway as he walks. Concrete walls, floor, and ceiling, just like the room he was being held in. Plenty of doors lining the hallway. Dirty and dark. Not much to go off of. Sherlock wants to look around a little, but obviously this is impossible. The man leading Sherlock suddenly stops.

"In here," he commands, pointing to a door that is slightly ajar. "The boss will see you now. "

Sherlock puts his hand on the doorknob, but then pauses. "You're not coming in?" he asks the guard. The man doesn't answer his question.

"Hurry up," he demands. "The boss doesn't like to be kept waiting. Sherlock breathes in deeply and pushes open the door. He walks into a large room, ornate and comfortable. It feels very different from the cold, concrete room that he's been in for the past week.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," greets a smooth, calm voice. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person after hearing so much about you." The source of the voice is a man sitting in an oversized, plush chair in the middle of the room. The man gestures toward him.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, close the door behind you and take a seat." Sherlock obliges, although cautiously. He sits down in a chair directly opposite to the man.

"So, Mr. Holmes, I suppose it's time for introductions," he begins, in a teasing tone. "I already know you relatively well, as I'm sure you have deduced by this point. I'm sure you are curious as to who I am, though."

"Actually," interjects Sherlock, "I believe I have a good idea as to who you are. Professor James Moriarty, correct?"

The man looks impressed, maybe even surprised, for a brief moment. He quickly regains his cool demeanor.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, I'm impressed. I have clearly underestimated your powers of deduction. What gave me away?" he asks with a forced smile.

Sherlock smiles. "Your work is rather intriguing to me, I must admit. By work, I am referring both to your professorial studies and your… current occupation. You are undoubtedly one of the most talented criminals whom I have ever encountered." Moriarty seems surprised by how much Sherlock knows.

Sherlock continues, "I've noticed a pattern in some of my recent cases. I've never been able to directly trace any of them back to you, but it's been obvious to me that something was going on behind the scenes. And knowing your history and skills, it seemed likely to me that you played a part in these crimes. Not directly, of course. But in the planning of them all. When I met your associate, James Wilson, I immediately suspected something. When he attacked me, my suspicions were confirmed."

Moriarty smiles coldly at Sherlock. "You're very good, Mr. Holmes. But now, since you seem to know so much, tell me, what do you plan to do now? You must admit you're at a disadvantage."

Sherlock doesn't answer his question. "Professor Moriarty, I must ask you. What do _you_ plan to do now? I can't really see any advantage that you would find in keeping me as a prisoner. Yet, you have still kept me here for a week. What's the point? Why don't you just kill me?"

Moriarty chuckles at Sherlock's audacity. "Mr. Holmes, I'm not the only one who has something against you and your colleague Dr. Watson. You've put an abundance of dangerous criminals in prison and have gotten many of them hung. I have several passionate… clients…. that are willing to pay tremendous sums of money in order to assure your demise. Amongst London's criminals, you're a hated man, Mr. Holmes." He pauses for a moment, staring intently at Sherlock.

"Well, it's a shame. You would have made a wonderful colleague. Just think of all you would accomplish if you were on the right side. Think of the power you would possess." Sherlock is quiet for a moment. He's silent because he knows that what Moriarty is saying is true. Of course, he's not interested in being a criminal. But he's annoyed by how advantageous corruption can be for those who are skilled at it.

He speaks again, impatient. "You never answered my question. Why don't you just kill me?"

A sly smile forms on Moriarty's face. "Now, Mr. Holmes. Why would you think that I would kill you? No, that would be too boring. I want a little bit of fun, and I've certainly been having my share of it. Although, I suppose you wouldn't know much about what's been going on since you've been here."

Intrigued, Sherlock inquires, "What do you mean, you've been having 'fun'? What don't I know about?" He hates being here, not knowing what's going on back in London. That's one of the things that he usually relies on: being about to predict what's going to happen. Now he's at a total disadvantage.

Moriarty senses Sherlock's frustration, and he actually seems to enjoy it. "Why are you so concerned?" he jokes. "I suppose you might as well know what's going on, though. I'll tell you. The day that Wilson brought you here, I had a group of people stage a crime scene in your flat. I…"

"What do you mean "a crime scene"? What did you do?"

Moriarty chuckles. "I've been pioneering a new medical field, facial reconstruction. I found a man about your height, with a similar hair color. I hired a few skilled people to attempt to make that man look like you. It actually turned out quite nicely, I must say. The resemblance was almost exact. After that, the rest was easy. We took his body and staged a suicide scene in your flat."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. "You really are quite good," he finally says. "So they think I'm dead?"

Moriarty shakes his head, a smug look on his face. "Not exactly. A few days later, we put another replica body in an alleyway and called the police."

Shaking his head, Sherlock smiles coldly. "You are certainly clever, I'll admit that much. But…" A sudden knock on the door interrupts him mid-sentence.

Moriarty looks impatient. "I'm busy. I thought I told you not to interrupt me," he complains.

Despite this, the door opens, revealing a man who looks vaguely familiar to Sherlock, although he is not sure why.

"Sir, I apologize, but it's urgent." Moriarty sighs, obviously annoyed by the sudden interruption.

"Fine. What's the problem?" The man looks nervous and somewhat distracted. He steps into the room.

"I… was watching the area you told me to, when… I heard a gunshot. I knew that it was about the time that you had sent Wilson to deliver your message, so I went to see what was wrong."

Moriarty looks concerned. "He couldn't have possibly… I told him specifically to keep the Doctor alive…" he whispers to himself.

"No, no, sir, he didn't shoot him. Doctor Watson's alive… but, sir, Wilson's dead."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He realizes that the reason he recognizes the man is because he'd seen him on Baker Street before; this is one of Moriarty's spies who's been watching him and Watson.

"Watson shot him?" he suddenly asks.

The man looks nervously at Moriarty, who shrugs.

"Did Dr. Watson shoot Wilson? Or was it Inspector Lestrade?" Moriarty inquires.

The man shakes his head slowly."No. They couldn't. Wilson had… For some reason, he slit Dr. Watson's wrists. Dr. Watson survived, but he was bleeding too much at the time to shoot anyone. And Inspector Lestrade didn't have a gun at the time. I know this sounds strange, but I think the Doctor's fiancée did it." Moriarty doesn't have much of a response. He seems deep in thought. After a while he speaks again, although he doesn't look up.

"Well, there's always going to be some collateral damage, I suppose. Thank you, you may leave." The man walks back of out the room and shuts the door.

Sherlock is surprised. He hadn't thought of Mary as the kind of person who would have the courage or ability to shoot anyone. But now he knows that John and Mary are fighting back.

Even through all of this confusion, however, one thing is clear to both Sherlock and Moriarty.

The game is afoot.

**Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this chapter. I'd love any reviews, questions, or suggestions ;)**

**Thank you so much Lightening Sparks and Nimara Portmac for your reviews!**


	14. Chapter 14

John opens his eyes. He's in a small room that's buzzing with hushed voices. He's confused. Where is he?

He looks down and notices his bandaged wrists. Suddenly, memories of the day before flood back into his mind: memories of the letter, of being hurt by Wilson, and of Wilson's death by being shot by Mary.

"Mary…" John whispers. Where is she? He's worried about her.

"Doctor Watson's awake!" a voice suddenly calls out.

A man walks up to John. It's Dr. Simon Phillips.

"Hello, John. How are you feeling?"

John shrugs. "I'm fine, I guess. I feel much better than I did. But do you know where Mary is? Is she here?"

Simon smiles. "Well, it does sound like you're feeling better. But who's Mary? Oh, is that your fiancée?"

John nods.

"Well, she's here. She's waiting outside with Inspector Lestrade. She's fine. A bit shaken, of course, but fine. Would you like me to bring them inside?"

John nods, and Simon leaves the room. He reenters a few moments later, Mary and Lestrade following behind him. It's Mary that speaks first.

"John, how are you doing? Are you feeling okay?"

John smiles. "Yes, I'm fine. I just want to get out of here as soon as possible." This is understandable. Sherlock is still missing, and every day that passes reduces the chance of him surviving.

Lestrade shakes his head. "You're not leaving until you're better. We're already working on finding Sherlock, John. In fact, we are actually investigating the alleyway right now to try and find out where he is."

John raises an eyebrow. "Have you found anything?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "We hadn't when I left, but they probably started examining Wilson's body after I left to come here."

John looks at him intensely. "I want to go there. Now."

Frowning, Lestrade shakes his head. "No… you can't leave now, you're hurt. Just a few more days…"

"No," John quickly interrupts him. "Sherlock is missing. He's going to stay missing unless we do something. I've been with him the most, so I know how he would solve this case better than anyone. I know he wouldn't stop working because of an injury. I can't let this get in the way; that's exactly what whoever took Sherlock wants."

Dr. Phillips walks over to John and Lestrade. "John, I'm sorry, but you're not going to be able to do much for a while. You lost a lot of blood. You can start working on the case in a little while, maybe five or six days from now. But until then, you're going to have to stay fairly inactive."

"But I'll be fine…" John begins to protest, but he knows that Phillips is right. Being a doctor himself, he is completely aware of the need for recovery after such a bad blood loss, but he is disappointed nevertheless.

"Fine. I'll stay here. But, Lestrade, please, I need you to check some things out for me. When you examine the body, I mean."

Lestrade chuckles slightly. John appears to be attempting to take on Sherlock's role in this investigation. But everyone, including John and Lestrade, knows that this is impossible. Ever since Sherlock has been missing, Scotland Yard has seemed a little bit empty. Sherlock always kept investigations interesting with his ingenuity and creativity, and now that factor is missing from the department.

"What do you need? What should I check out?" he asks.

"You have to look at the shoes," says John.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade questions confusedly. "We always look at all of the evidence found on the body."

John shakes his head. "I know that. But Sherlock always looks closer than that. If you find any soil, mud, leaves, grass, or anything like that on the shoes, bring it back to me straight away. I've seen Sherlock look at a person's shoes and almost instantly solve a crime. Maybe if we try to think like him, we can figure something out."

Smiling, Lestrade nods. "I'll make sure to let you know of anything that we find out. Now, I have to go. I'm going to head back so that I can look at the body."

* * *

Lestrade walks back into the morgue. He is quickly greeted by a medical examiner from the department.

"Inspector, we just finished the autopsy."

"Yes, and? Did you find anything?" he asks hopefully.

The man nods.

"Well, actually, we did find something in one of his pockets that might be helpful. There was a key in the left pocket of his pants. Fairly normal in dimension and appearance, although there is an engraving on the side that could be helpful in trying to identify what door it unlocks. It reads "A15." Possibly a flat or mailbox number, I suppose. Would you like to see it?"

Lestrade nods. "I want to take it to Dr. Watson. He's not allowed to leave the hospital for now, but he's understandably concerned about the case. Was that key all that you found?"

"Yes, that was all."

"Well, then," begins Lestrade, "I would like to take a look at the clothes if that's alright with you. Dr. Watson suggested taking a closer look at them."

Nodding, the medical examiner gestures to a small table at the other end of the room. Lestrade walks quickly over to the table, which has a few dirty and bloodstained articles of clothing on it.

"Thank you," he says to the medical examiner. "I'll take a look at these. You can continue working."

The medical examiner leaves and Lestrade starts to examine the clothes. First, he carefully looks over the shirt and pants. Both seem relatively normal, apart from the blood. He remembers John's advice and walks over to the shoes.

Cautiously, Lestrade picks up one of the shoes. He turns it over, looking closely at the soles. He notices a few stones and little bits of dried mud stuck on the sole of the shoe. He carefully removes the stones and dirt and places them in a bag for evidence.

Lestrade quickly leaves the morgue to head back to the hospital.

He is somewhat relieved. Before this point, the investigation has had little evidence. This key, the dirt, and the stones are some of the first leads of the case. However, Lestrade is somewhat doubtful that John has acquired enough skill from Sherlock to use the dirt and stones as actual evidence.

If John can't identify the dirt, it may take weeks to find its source.

And time is certainly of high importance in this case.

* * *

"John!" a voice calls from outside the hospital room.

John sits up. Lestrade walks into the room holding a small bag that John supposes is holding some sort of evidence found on Wilson's body. John is anxious to see what the autopsy has revealed regarding Sherlock's location.

Lestrade doesn't wait for any reply from John. "We found a key in his pocket. At the top of the key it says "A15." We're not exactly sure what it opens yet but it seems like a good lead."

He opens the evidence bag. "Also, I did what you said and looked on the bottom of the shoes. I found these stones and mud stuck on the sole. I have no idea where they're from. I'm not sure you would know either. It looks pretty normal to me."

John motions for Lestrade to bring the bag closer. He takes the bag from Lestrade and peers in. His eyes widen and he looks up at Lestrade.

"I know this dirt. I've seen this type of soil before, on one of the cases that Sherlock and I did. Where was it…" his voice trails off.

Lestrade is surprised. He didn't think that John would be able to identify the soil. It had just looked like dirt and stones to him. Maybe Sherlock's skill really was rubbing off on John.

"I've got it!" exclaims John. "I know where this is from! I recognize it from a case that I worked on with Sherlock. I remember him telling me that this type of soil was only found near the Thames at the Tower Bridge! He said it was unique because the mixture of rocks contained a small quantity of granite, which is not typically found in other areas of London. We have to go there, Lestrade. Maybe Sherlock is near there."

Lestrade shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere, John. You're still recovering. I'll get some backup and head to the Tower Bridge to see if we can find any door that the key will unlock."

John nods reluctantly, hating to miss out. "Fine. But you have to come back here as soon as possible and let me know what you find."

Lestrade nods and leaves. Mary, who is still sitting in the room, walks up to John.

"Don't worry. They're going to find him, John. I know you might not like it, but you have to rest, or you're not going to get better. Everything will be fine."

It's a lie, and both Mary and John know it. Nobody knows what's going to happen to Sherlock, and it's unlikely that everything will be 'fine'. But one thing that John does know is that he is not going to give up.

He's not going down without a fight.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Encore! First of all, I have to apologize for not updating for so long. I've had some serious writer's block and because of that haven't really felt like writing. But I'm back now and will try to update frequently. Also, thank you so much Esbee, Lightening Sparks, and Nimara Portmac for your reviews on the last chapter!**

**I would really appreciate any reviews, comments, or suggestions that you have. Thanks so much for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

Dr. Simon Phillips glances over at his patient, John Watson. John is still awake, just the same as he has been for hours.

This isn't particularly surprising to Dr. Phillips. John is under a lot of stress, and he obviously doesn't want to miss anything, even if it means costing him his own health. Phillips is quite impressed by this. He isn't extremely familiar with Sherlock course, he has heard of him. Practically everyone in London knows something about Sherlock Holmes, with all of the high profile cases he solved in the past few years.

Although Phillips doesn't know much about Sherlock Holmes himself, it is clear that John Watson is extremely worried for Sherlock's safety.

As much as he admires John's strength, however, Phillips still wishes that John would rest for a while. He needs it.

Dr. Phillips walks over to John once again to try to convince him to rest. As soon as Phillips gets to his side, John shakes his head, knowing exactly what Phillips is about to say.

"No," he says.

Phillips sighs. "John, you must understand. You need to rest. You're still recovering. You're a doctor too. You know everything I'm telling you, so why aren't you listening to me?" Phillips knows that this arguing is useless. John is not going to listen to him, regardless of what he says.

John doesn't answer. He just stares off into the distance, once again caught up in worry. Simon knows that he won't be able to change John's mind.

He walks out of the room and over to a middle-aged nurse who is standing in the hallway just outside the room; she's busy writing something down in John's file. The nurse notices him and looks up from the papers.

Dr. Phillips greets her. "Good afternoon, Rosie."

The nurse smiles and replies in a thick Scottish accent, "Good afternoon, Dr. Phillips. No luck with Dr. Watson, I suppose?"

The doctor shakes his head. "No. I doubt he'll sleep at all until he gets news back from Inspector Lestrade, if even then. I don't think I'll be able to change his mind at all on that matter."

Rosie suddenly frowns. "Doctor, have you gone home at all since Watson came in last night? You haven't, have you?"

Phillips shrugs. "Well, I haven't, but I'm fine, really…"

The nurse shakes her head. "No, Doctor, you aren't fine. You must be exhausted! You really must take a break."

"Rosie, I can't. Doctor Watson… He still needs..." His voice trails off.

Rosie laughs. "Oh, come on. You and I both know that you're not going to be able to convince him to rest. There's nothing more that you can do. I'll watch him. Take your own advice. Go home and rest."

Dr. Phillips smiles gratefully. "Thanks, Rosie."

He grabs his coat and bag and walks down the hospital hallway and out the door. The sun is shining brightly through a gap in the clouds, and he's enjoying the little bit of sunshine after such a long day of work.

As Phillips walks down the street, he suddenly feels a hand on his arm.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Doctor, but this is quite urgent."

He whirls around to face the source of the voice.

It's a petite young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. She has blond hair and bright green eyes. She is quite attractive, but looks distraught.

Dr. Phillips quickly responds, "Oh, don't worry, it's no problem. What's wrong?"

The woman doesn't appear to be injured, but her bottom lip is quivering. She seems to be fighting back tears. "It's… it's my brother. He's hurt. He's been… he's been shot."

Phillips' eyes widen. "Where is he? What happened?"

"Williams Avenue," the woman quickly responds.

"How did you get here? By taxi?"

She nods. "It's still waiting right here," she says, pointing to a car on the side of the road.

"Let's go, then!" Phillips exclaims. The two of them get inside the taxi and the woman tells the driver the address.

Once they are moving, Dr. Phillips begins to speak. "What happened? How was he shot?"

The woman takes a deep breath, trying not to cry, and answers him.

"We were just walking down the street back to his flat, when we saw something strange. There was a man in the back of a taxi, banging on the window. He looked familiar, and I wasn't sure why. But then I realized that it looked the man I saw in the paper a few days ago.

You know, that detective that hung himself."

Phillips stares intensely at the woman. Could it really Sherlock Holmes in the back of the taxi?

"I know it doesn't really make sense, because he killed himself, but the man in the car just looked so much like him.

My brother saw the man too. He pointed at the car, and the driver must have noticed him then. He opened the door and stepped out, holding a gun.

Then he… he shot my brother. He tried to shoot me too, but I ran. When I looked back, the taxi was gone. I went back to my brother to try stop the bleeding. The bullet only hit his arm. He was still conscious. I tied a handkerchief tightly around the wound and brought him inside his flat, and that's when I left to get you."

After the woman finishes talking, there is total silence. Dr. Phillips doesn't want to bother the already traumatized woman any more. After a while, the taxi stops and the driver announces their arrival. "148 Williams Avenue."

The woman hurriedly pays him and gets out with Dr. Phillips.

"Oh, I forgot to ask. What is your name?" he asks.

The woman forces a quick smile. "I'm Caroline Redding. And my brother's name is Carter."

Dr. Phillips nods. "Okay, Caroline. Let's go."

Caroline opens the door to the flat and hurries in, with Dr. Phillips at her side.

"Carter!" she calls out. "Carter, the doctor is here now. Don't worry; you're going to be okay."

She sounds nervous, as if she doesn't believe what she's saying.

Simon can now see the woman's brother lying on the floor of the flat. His left arm is wrapped in a red-stained handkerchief. He stirs slightly and groans as he hears Caroline's voice. Caroline shuts the door and hurries over to Carter's side with Dr. Phillips.

"Carter, can you hear me?" Phillips inquires.

"Yes… I can," the man groans.

"Okay, I'm going to clean out the wound and try to see if I can stop the bleeding. Caroline, can you grab a cloth bandage out of my bag?"

She nods and hands him the bandage.

"I'm going to take off the handkerchief now." The doctor carefully unties the knot of the handkerchief and removes it.

He suddenly stops, frowning and confused.

There is no bullet wound on the man's arm.

He quickly looks back at Caroline for some explanation.

Suddenly, Dr. Phillips hears a click behind him. He looks in the direction of the noise.

As he does, the 'injured' man springs to his feet, pointing a gun at Simon's head. Wincing, Phillips slowly turns his head back to Caroline.

She sighs. "Oh, Phillips. You really are so gullible," Caroline teases slyly.

"What is going on?" Phillips questions cautiously.

Caroline smiles coldly at him, her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, don't worry. As long as you tell me what I want to know, you just might make it out of here alive."

* * *

**Hello again! Sorry that it's been so long since I updated, I've been away for a while. I hope you liked this chapter! **

**Lightening Sparks and Esbee, thank you for your kind reviews!**

**Thanks for reading and I'd appreciate any reviews, suggestions, or questions!**


	16. Chapter 16

"Professor!" a voice echoes loudly down the hallway.

"Professor, they're coming! They know… they know we're here!"

The source of the voice, a short, somewhat chubby man, pauses as he reaches a tall door near the middle of the hallway. He wipes the beads of sweat from his forehead, breathing heavily. After a few moments, the man cautiously turns the door handle and opens the door. He steps carefully into the room.

His sudden arrival is met with a scowl from the man sitting in a chair in the middle of the room.

"Didn't I tell you to always know before you enter, Jenson?" The annoyance in his voice is obvious, and he speaks as though he's correcting a child.

The panting man, clearly embarrassed, stares apologetically at the ground.

"I… I'm very sorry, Professor Moriarty," he mumbles.

Moriarty shakes his head impatiently.

"Yes, fine." He sighs. "Now, what were you saying before? What is going on?"

The man, whose breathing has just now returned to normal, nods quickly.

"Sir, the "Reddings" just contacted me. They got Doctor Phillips to talk."

Moriarty raises an eyebrow. "Yes, and what did Phillips tell them?"

Jenson nods again. "Sir, they- Scotland Yard, I mean- have figured out somehow where we are, where we've been keeping Holmes. There's actually… there's a team from Scotland Yard headed here right now."

This news seems to surprise Moriarty, but only lets it show momentarily. He soon regains his icy calm.

"Well, I am certainly impressed. I had though that it would take them longer than this. But how exactly did they figure it out?"

The man shrugs weakly. "Phillips wasn't completely sure, but he did say that Dr. Watson identified some dirt that was stuck in a shoe."

Clearly annoyed, Moriarty slams a fist down on the arm of his chair. "It's that idiot Wilson! He's become more of a hindrance than a help. I thought I'd hired a clever man. But he just _had_ to get himself shot, didn't he?"

Jenson unconsciously takes a step back, startled by the sudden outburst from his usually calm employer. Moriarty notices his movement.

"Well, never mind that." He suddenly realizes something.

"Jenson, I was told that John Watson had been hurt by Wilson. Isn't he injured in the hospital? But you just told me that he was the one who Phillips said had figured out our location?"

Jenson shrugs. "He_ is_ in the hospital. Lestrade brought some of the evidence to him because John wanted to help."

Moriarty shakes his head. "He really won't give up, will he? It's admirable, I suppose, but incredibly annoying."

After a momentary pause, Moriarty rises from his chair. "I'll deal with him later. Right now, we need to get out of the building. I trust a distraction has already been made for the Scotland Yard team that is coming here?"

The man quickly nods. "Yes, sir. I believe they're at the scene of a "shooting" that happened along the way."

Moriarty smiles coldly. "Excellent. Now, hurry up. Get everyone out. Now, don't just stand there. Go!"

Jenson, startled, hurries out of the room, and down the hall.

* * *

John Watson stares blankly at the ceiling of his hospital room. He knows that he shouldn't try to stay awake, but he can't help it. His mind is consumed with worry and fear. He's in a considerable amount of pain because of his injuries, but he fights through it. He won't let himself harbor any self-pity. To do so would make him feel guilty.

After all, he is likely not the one that is suffering the most.

If what Wilson told him was true, Sherlock is probably suffering a lot more.

He still retains a small amount of hope, especially since finding out a possible place that Sherlock is being held. But his hope is quickly overcome by uncertainly.

A sudden cry snaps John out of his daze. He hears voices outside his room. John can't contain his curiosity.

He struggles to his feet and slowly makes his way to the door. He opens it and walks outside into the hallway.

He's immediately met by a wave of voices coming from the other end. He follows the sound, ending up at the entrance to the hospital.

Nobody notices John's arrival, and for good reason.

Collapsed on the floor near the door is Dr. Simon Phillips, covered in blood and bruises.

John hurries to the Doctor. "What happened? Is he okay?" he asks one of the nurses.

"He'll live, but he's badly hurt. We're not sure what happened. He hasn't said much. He just came in and sort of… well, just collapsed. He keeps repeating the name 'John', though, for some reason."

John's eyes widen. "That's me. _I'm_ John."

He doesn't wait for a response, but quickly kneels down at Phillips' side.

"Simon, it's John. What happened to you?"

"John…" With difficulty, he pulls himself to a sitting position against the wall. "They beat me when I wouldn't tell them what they wanted to know."

John furrows his brow. "Who? Who did this?"

Simon shakes his head slowly. "I don't… I don't know who they are. It was a… a girl. She said her name was Caroline Redding. And then a man. Carter Redding, I think. The girl said her brother had been shot and asked me to help, but when I went to help him, she locked the door and pointed a gun at me. I'm sorry, John. I had to tell them."

"Tell them what?"

"That you found out where your friend is being kept. I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry."

John shakes his head. "No, it's not your fault."

Suddenly, he realizes something. "They know Lestrade is coming. I have to go warn him."

He quickly gets up, despite the protests of Phillips and the nurses. "I have to go. These men are dangerous. I have to warn Lestrade."

John pushes past and heads out the door.

He ignores the pain that he is feeling. He ignores the logical part of his mind that is telling him that this is a terrible idea.

He's on a mission.

And nothing is going to get in his way.

* * *

**Hello again! I hope you enjoyed chapter 16! **

**Thanks, James Birdsong and Lightening Sparks, for your reviews!**

**I would really appreciate any reviews or suggestions!**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	17. Chapter 17

"Excuse me! I need a cab, please! It's urgent!"

A cab pulls up to the side of the road, the driver impatiently motioning for Watson to get in.

"Where'ya going, mister?"

"I need to get to Tower Bridge. It's urgent. I'll pay you extra if you get there quickly." The cabbie nods, and John sits down in the cab.

He sighs. Having found a cab willing to take him to Tower Bridge, John Watson is once again left to his own thoughts. He tries not to worry, but it's incredibly hard. The pain he feels from his injuries clouds his mind. He bites his lip, attempting to stay focused, but there are so many problems right now. Once again encouraging the cabbie to drive faster, Watson estimates, based on the area of the city he's in right now, that he still has another ten minutes until he reaches Tower Bridge. He tries to stay positive, realizing that worry isn't going to help at all.

Maybe he'll be lucky. Maybe he'll catch up to Lestrade and his team before they reach Tower Bridge so that he can warn them. Even though John knows that Moriarty and his men are aware that a team from Scotland Yard is coming to the warehouse, he still retains a bit of hope.

Even though this means that they will probably not be able to rescue Sherlock Holmes.

Even though it's probably going to be a trap.

The hopes quickly fade into anxiety. There are so many 'what ifs' in this situation.

What if Wilson's key and shoes were left as a clue on purpose? What if it's all been a setup? Maybe Holmes is already dead and they are doing all of this for nothing!

John tries to think positively, but after all of this time, he finds it difficult. He's had to stay hopeful for far too long to believe that his hopes are true.

He suddenly feels the cab jerk to a halt. The cab doesn't start moving again, and John looks out the window. This is certainly not Tower Bridge. Why had the cab stopped, then? He strains to see further forward outside the window. He can see something there. Something is going on.

Curious, John opens the door of the cab and steps outside. He sees a group of people directly in front of the cab. Suddenly, he notices that a few of them are from Scotland Yard. Did Lestrade stop to see what was going on here too? And what _is_ going on here? John walks a bit further to get closer to the group of people. He can now see what is happening.

It looks like a large fight, and some of Lestrade's team are trying to stop it. The whole scene just seems strange to John, for some reason that he doesn't quite know. As he walks closer to the group of people, he notices Lestrade isn't there.

Where is he, then? Just as John is wondering this, he hears a voice.

"Watson? Is that you?" He quickly turns to face the source of the voice. He then sees Lestrade sitting on the side of the road, one side of his face bloodied and bruised.

"Inspector Lestrade? What happened?" He hurried to Lestrade.

"Oh, it's nothing, I just tried breaking up the fight. But what about you? You're supposed to be in the hospital. Why aren't you still in the hospital?"

John shakes his head. "I couldn't stay there… I had to come warn you. They know you're coming. Moriarty, I mean. He knows that we found out where he is."

Lestrade looks extremely confused. "What do you mean? How do you know that?"

"Dr. Phillips had to tell them. They attacked him and threatened him until he told them what they wanted to know. He's badly hurt, but he's at the hospital right now. I thought… if that's what they did for information, then you and your team are in danger since they know you're coming."

Lestrade seems angry. "I've had enough of this 'Moriarty' character. I say we go to Tower Bridge right now and get back Holmes."

John shakes his head. "But they know we're coming! It's probably a trap!"

"I don't care. I'm used to danger. If we go now, we might still have a chance and catching up to them." He pauses for a moment. "But you can't come, Watson. You're still hurt and really shouldn't have come here in the first place."

"Inspector, I'm coming, whether you want me to or not. I'm not just going to leave when there's a chance that we can save Holmes."

Lestrade sighs, annoyed. He knows that John isn't just going to leave, and arguing with him will just be a waste of time. Time that don't have if they want to get to the warehouse at Tower Bridge before Moriarty and his men leave with Holmes. He nods, and the Lestrade calls over two of him men to come with them to the warehouse.

"Let's go then, Dr. Watson. We have no time to lose."

* * *

As John Watson nears his destination, the warehouse by Tower Bridge, he can clearly smell smoke in the air.

He can see flames flickering in the windows of the warehouse.

He slams his fist down. "No! They're gone already, aren't they? Of course! We didn't even have a chance and now they've burned all of the evidence!" John is losing hope rapidly.

Lestrade shakes his head. He is discouraged too, but wants to investigate every possible option.

"Maybe, the fire was just a distraction. They could be trying to escape and don't want us to notice! We should search the premises. Martin," he says, turning to one of the officers he brought with him, "Go back to town and get help to put out the fire. It's not very big. We'll look around."

The officer nods and hurries off.

"Abbott, you go the opposite way as we do. We can cover more ground that way."

The other officer turns around and starts walking toward the other side of the warehouse.

"Okay, Dr. Watson. Let's see what we can find." The two of them cautiously walk around the edge of the warehouse in total silence. Both men know that this is not a good time for talking.

Minutes pass with no discoveries.

Suddenly, they hear a voice. "Inspector! I found something over here." Turning around, John sees the other officer, Abbott, motioning for them to come.

Lestrade and Watson follow him, and after a few minutes walk to the other side of the warehouse, Abbott stops.

"It's right here, sir." Lestrade cautiously eyes the shadowy area where Abbott is pointing. After a few moments, Lestrade approaches. Looking back at John with wide eyes, he motions for John to come look. As John nears, he begins to see the object clearer.

It's another body.

And even though it is badly burnt, John can tell.

It looks a whole lot like Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Hi! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Encore! I'm sorry I've taken so long to update, I've just been I just haven't really had much inspiration for this story. I'd appreciate any suggestions or reviews!**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	18. Chapter 18

**Hello there! First of all, I have to apologize for the extremely long time that I have taken to write this chapter. I was having a bit of writer's block, but my inspiration for the story is back! :) **

**Okay, I've also got a quick note: I just wanted to clarify something about Moriarty. I personally find the James Moriarty from BBC Sherlock more interesting to write with than the movie version, so I tend to characterize Moriarty in this story more like the BBC character than the one from the RDJ movies. If he seems a bit out of character for the movie version, this is why. **

**Anyways, I hope you enjoy! **

* * *

John stands next to the charred remains of a body, completely unsure of what to think. He has no idea whether or not the body is actually Sherlock's.

Before this point, all of the bodies have been replicas. That gives him a little bit of hope.

But still, it's hard to stay hopeful with these circumstances. He's completely consumed with fear and terrible doubts plague his mind. All of the other bodies have all been fake, but didn't Wilson say that they would eventually kill the real Sherlock too? What if this is actually his corpse?

Lestrade turns and looks at John. "I… we should check for the… you know, the stitches on the side of the face."

John sighs. "Oh. I'm sorry. Yes, of course." He kneels down next to the body.

John cautiously turns the head of the corpse, looking for the stitch marks that will ease his fears, even if just a little. He stares hard at the body, looking intently.

They _have_ to be there. There's no way Sherlock is actually dead.

But, as hard as he looks, John can't really tell if the stitches are present. The body is just too badly burnt.

"I don't know," he says, shaking his head.

Lestrade looks at him confusedly. "What do you mean 'you don't know'? Are there stitches?"

John shrugs hopelessly. "I have no idea. If there were stitches, they were burnt away in the fire. It's impossible to tell. The body is terribly burnt."

Lestrade sighs. Both of the men had been hoping for an absolutely certain answer. After standing around the body for a few moments, Lestrade takes a deep breath. "Well, if he _is_ still alive, just standing here and doing nothing is not going to help get him back."

John nods in agreement. Lestrade, and John begin to walk again, once again looking for any clues that could lead to Sherlock.

John's hopes are getting dimmer by the second.

* * *

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock looks up and glares at the speaker. Moriarty. He sits up straighter and looks Moriarty in the eyes with a long sigh.

"Have you finally come to kill me? Because you're taking an awfully long time to do that, you know."

Moriarty chuckles slightly. "Patience, patience, dear Holmes. I could do that, of course. But… I really do think I have a better idea. What I have planned for you is so much more fun than just killing you!"

Sherlock smirks at him, slowly shaking his head. "I can't imagine what your idea of _fun_ is, but _please_ just hurry up and do it. This waiting is getting _awfully_ dull."

An evil smile creeps onto Moriarty's face. "Oh, why are you so annoyed with me? I never said _I_ was going to do anything to you, did I? No, no, no. That just wouldn't do. That would be boring, don't you think? And neither of us like to be bored, do we?"

Sherlock doesn't respond. He looks back down to the dirty concrete floor.

"I asked you a question."

Sherlock still doesn't say anything.

"Holmes, it's rude to ignore people."

Sherlock quickly looks up. "Well, it's rude to kidnap people."

Moriarty sighs and nods, feigning an apologetic look. "I suppose. But it's still not particularly clever to be rude to the person who currently has the power to kill you _within moments_."

Sherlock smiles coldly. "I'll take my chances. You don't seem to want to kill me yet, anyways."

Moriarty nods. "I suppose that's true."

He pauses for a moment, an evil look in his eyes.

"You know, I just got word that Dr. Watson is out of the hospital. Well, he's actually not supposed to be out, he's just very determined to find you. He just can't stay out of my way, can he?"

Sherlock just looks at him. "And… Why would you tell me this?"

Moriarty grins. "Because he left the hospital to try find _you_."

He walks up to where Sherlock is sitting, chained to the wall. He crouches down and looks Sherlock in the eyes.

"He's putting himself through terrible pain and putting his life in jeopardy _just to try find you_."

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

Moriarty stands back up, looking impressed with himself. He seems to be enjoying this.

"Ah, so that _does_ bother you, doesn't it? Everyone has their weak point, even the great Sherlock Holmes. Even Sherlock Holmes has a conscience," he says with a laugh. "Caring is a mistake, and it's going to cost you, believe me. I'll make sure of that. John Watson isn't getting out of this unscathed."

Sherlock stares angrily at Moriarty, shaking his head. He sits up straighter. "Let me make one thing clear to you.

You're making a mistake. A fatal mistake.

You can kill me, sure. I honestly don't care. But no matter how clever you think you are, you're never going to be as brave as Watson.

I know you think that moral indifference will benefit you, but you're dead wrong. I've never seen a man more determined than when he's fighting for what's right. You don't have that advantage. You have made it _abundantly_ clear that you have no goodness in you.

But Watson does. John Watson is a good man, and a good man with unbreakable persistence."

For a moment, neither man speaks.

Suddenly, Moriarty begins to slowly clap."How touching!"

He pauses. "Touching, but mistaken. He really doesn't stand a chance, I'm afraid. That _was_ an impressive little speech, though. It will make a nice eulogy, don't you think? But that's enough of that. You'll get to see Dr. Watson soon, don't worry."

Sherlock's indignant expression instantaneously changes into one of suspicion.

Before he can say anything, Moriarty once again begins to speak. "I'm sure you want to know what I mean by that. It's all part of my plans, you see. You _will_ get to see Watson one more time before you die. I must admit, however, that he probably won't be very happy to see you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "And why would that be?"

Moriarty chuckles. "It's really quite simple. It's because you're going to kill his fiancée in front of him."

Sherlock looks confused. "And why would I do that?"

Moriarty grins. "Ah, I'm glad you asked. This is where it gets interesting, so listen closely.

I've planted three bombs in various places around London. Of course, they're all very busy places. I have instructed my men to detonate all three bombs unless I tell them otherwise. And I won't call them off until you've done it.

Oh, and just as an added incentive, I'll have a gunman ready to shoot both Dr. Watson and Miss Morstan if you fail to complete your task.

Now, do you understand what you have to do? Because the lives of dozens of people are depending on it.

Really, it's up to you. You choose.

Would you rather kill one person or cause the deaths of dozens?"

* * *

**Thank you for reading! I would really appreciate any reviews or suggestions! :)**

**Thanks so much to Esbee and James Birdsong for your reviews of the last chapter!**


	19. Chapter 19

"Watson, they say it's safe to go in now."

John looks over to see Lestrade standing a short distance away from him.

"They say the structure's safe, and all of the fire has been put out. We can go in and look if you'd like."

John nods. He is already extremely exhausted. The hours waiting at the burning warehouse had brought back the pain of both his wounds and of the increasing hopelessness that torments him. He breathes in deeply, feigning strength but really aching both inside and out. "Let's go."

He walks over to Lestrade and the two of them slowly approach the building.

As they near the warehouse, John can't help but think that this might be a dead end too. Sherlock's captors burnt the building for a reason. They wanted to get rid of any evidence. So why would there be any left? The people who took Sherlock have already proved themselves to be thorough and clever. Why would this time be any different?

Regardless of these thoughts, a small part of John still retains a little bit of hope. There is probably a slightly better chance of evidence being left at this scene. It seems like Sherlock's captors were slightly caught off guard by the news that their location had been found out so quickly. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that they had forgotten something, some small clue. Something that might lead them to Sherlock.

Lestrade pauses as he approaches the doorway of the building. "Are you sure you're okay, Watson? These last few days have been terrible for you. Would you rather just have my team go in? We'll tell you about anything we see…" Lestrade suspects that this attempt to try to convince John to rest is going to be useless.

He's right.

"Lestrade, I need to look. I need to help. He's been gone for a long time, and every second counts."

Lestrade sighs, nodding. "I thought you'd say that." He pauses. "Are you ready, then?"

John shrugs slightly. "Yes, I'm ready."

It's a lie.

He's not ready. He's not ready for any of this. But he tries to fight through the uncertainty and pain.

Lestrade nods, silently admiring John's bravery and perseverance, and slowly opens the door.

As the two of them walk in, they are both surprised. The building is much less burnt than they had originally thought. A small spark of hope reenters John's mind. Maybe there's still some evidence that survived the flames. John walks slowly around the room, but it looks fairly empty. Lestrade is obviously thinking the same thing.

"There's still a lot more warehouse. I doubt they were using much of it. We just need to figure which rooms they were using." John nods.

After thoroughly searching the room and finding nothing, John and Lestrade move into the next room. They repeat the process, looking for absolutely anything out of the ordinary. Nothing.

They keep moving, checking another seven rooms. At this point, John is totally exhausted, both mentally and physically. He's extremely weak because of the stress he's been through today.

He doesn't tell any of this to Lestrade, though. Lestrade might make him rest. And resting is something that John won't do. Resting won't help find Sherlock. It would just give him time to think about the situation, which would probably be much more harmful than helpful. He tries not to think about his pain, but it's incredibly hard.

Lestrade notices that he has slowed down. "Watson. You need to take a break."

John doesn't even respond, simply shaking his head and moving into the next room.

Sighing, Lestrade walks into the room with him. "No, Watson, you're not just going to ignore me. I may not be a doctor, but I know that you shouldn't be doing this. You're a doctor! You know how bad this is! You have to stop this. I'm going to take you outside. You need rest."

John suddenly freezes in place, staring intently at the corner of the room.

"Lestrade."

"No, you can't argue. You're going…"

"No, Lestrade. Right here. I found something."

Lestrade's eyes widen and he quickly kneels down next to John. "What is it? What are you looking at?"

John raises a visibly shaking finger towards the bottom of the wall. "Right there. I think… There are marks down there. They don't look random."

Lestrade bends down closer, looking intently at the area of the wall where John is pointing. Sure enough, he sees a long line of rough scratches on the wall.

"What are they?"

John suddenly gasps. "That's… that looks like Morse code… Do you think that was him? Did he leave us a message?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I don't know. Let's find out." He pulls out a small notebook.

He begins to write down the marks on the wall. "Okay, let's see… dash dot dash. That's definitely Morse code! And it's a letter 'C.' Dash dash dash. Letter 'O.' Dot dash dot. That's letter 'R.' Then… an 'N.' Then… 'E', then 'R.' That spells 'corner'. What on earth does he mean by corner?"

John stays kneeling down there for a moment, wondering. Suddenly, as his gaze drifts to another corner of the room, John sees something.

"Lestrade, there's something over there. On that wall, near the corner," he says, pointing to the opposite wall. The two men hurry over to the other wall, staring intently at the marks.

"Morse code again!" exclaims John.

Lestrade opens his notebook again. "Okay, let's see, what does that say… a…b…b…e…y. That's abbey. What's that supposed to mean? What does the next part say?"

John stares at the markings. "M…a…r…t…i…n. Martin. So we have corner, abbey, martin."

John looks around the room, trying to find any more code. He sees a small patch of markings on another wall and walks over to it. Kneeling down, he looks at Lestrade. "I think I found some more over here. It says c…a…b. Cab! Is there any more?"

The two men walk around the small room, examining the walls, but find no more markings.

Lestrade shrugs. "So then we have no more words. Just those. But what does he mean by 'corner abbey martin cab'?"

John suddenly gasps. "Lestrade, I think he's given us an address! The corner of Abbey Lane and Martin Street! And I suppose the cab part means that we should be looking for a cab there. But how would he know that they would be taking him there? Do you think this could be a trap?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "I don't know. We can't be sure that it was him that left that message for us. But Holmes is certainly brilliant. I don't doubt that he'd be able to figure out something like this, especially if there were men that came to this warehouse that had already been to the next hideout location. He can deduce an unbelievable amount by just looking at someone. Anyways, we don't have time to doubt this. We need to get going. It's been a while since they left the building, and even if Holmes was right, we still don't know when they'll be passing Abbey and Martin, if they haven't already. I'm guessing they'd stay away for a little while because that part of town is usually busy. But time is certainly of the essence."

John nods in agreement. "Let's get going, then."

They hurry out of the warehouse, instructing a few of Lestrade's men to keep searching the warehouse for any other clues that might have been left behind.

With this new lead, John's hopes have once again been revived.

Because regardless of the ingenuity of Sherlock's captors, John knows that he's got one thing that they don't.

Sherlock Holmes is on his side.

* * *

**Hello :) Thanks for reading Encore! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! **

**I would really appreciate any reviews or suggestions!**

**Thanks so much to Nimara Portmac and Esbee for your reviews of the last chapter!**


	20. Chapter 20

**HELLO AGAIN! I'M BACK! I'm so excited to finally have written another chapter! I've been insanely busy and I am so sorry that I haven't posted anything for months. Here's the chapter, I hope you enjoy!**

Lestrade and John sit next to each other on a dirty bench. Both are eagerly waiting, not talking. Instead, they stare out into the road.

On various sides of the intersection sit several others pairs of undercover police officers.

They have been waiting for only an hour, but the nervousness and anticipation has made it seem like triple that. Yet, the new hope makes it all worth it. Everybody hopes that this could finally be it, that they will finally find Sherlock.

John suddenly breaks the intense silence. "Lestrade, do you think we will find him?"

Lestrade is somewhat surprised by the directness of the question. "I… I don't know," he responds. "I mean, I would certainly like to think so. But there are still a lot of factors that we just can't control. We can't be entirely sure who wrote that message to us. We don't actually have concrete proof that Holmes is even still alive. I think it's better to prepare ourselves for the worst."

John isn't at all shocked by Lestrade's statement. In fact, he's been thinking that and much, much worse for the past hour. But it doesn't affect his internal hope at this possible opportunity to find Holmes. Somehow, even through all the circumstances, something inside of him wants to keep hope, to not give up. Even though the situation seems hopeless.

As they wait, Lestrade looks over at John. He slowly begins to shake his head at the man he sees.

His friend's face is ash white, and his hands tremble as he attempts to hide the pain that he's feeling.

"Watson. You really shouldn't be here. You are not well. You're hurt. You lost a lot of blood. You need to go home. I know you want to be here to help. But you're really not helping if you are going to be hurting yourself in the process." Lestrade says all this sincerely, but he is almost certain that John won't leave. It's just against his nature.

John is incredibly brave. He's also strong-willed. An injury, regardless of how debilitating, isn't going to be something that John will let get in his way. Especially when the life of his friend is on the line.

John doesn't even respond. He is not even considering leaving. Not for a moment. Yes, he is in pain. Terrible pain, both physically and mentally. But he certainly isn't going to let that possibly jeopardize his friend's safety.

He tries to still his trembling hands, pretending to be okay. Silence once again ensues, and both men feel the weight of the situation.

Every now and then, a cab drives through the intersection and the police stop and search it, but the road is mostly quiet.

Hours pass, but there's still nothing.

John is starting to feel the exhaustion that had previously been pushed away by his nervousness. It's starting to hit him hard, and he hopes that this will be over soon. Not that he's willing, or really able, to sleep, though. He has just been dealing with too much for too long, and he's feeling the full effects of his worry, injuries, and sleep-deprivation.

After a few minutes of quiet on the street, a lone cab rolls through the intersection.

Lestrade stands up and raises his hand, signaling for the cab to stop, the same as he's done so many times today. The cab slowly comes to a stop on the side of the street. Lestrade walks up to the door and motions for the cab driver to step out. He does.

"What's the meanin' of all of this?" the driver questions, obviously irritated.

"I'm sorry sir," apologizes Lestrade, more from instinct than sincerity. "We're looking for a man and got a tip that he'd be coming through this intersection at some point. Would you mind if we did a quick search?"

The driver sighs. "I guess, if ya must. You're makin' me late, though. I'm not happy about this."

Lestrade nods, and a pair of officers approaches the cab. This sight seems to agitate the driver even more.

John finds the man's behavior a bit strange. Yes, the other people that they've stopped haven't been entirely happy. But this man seems more than just unhappy. He seems almost… nervous. John slowly backs away, but the man doesn't seem to see him.

Lestrade pulls the door handle, but the door doesn't open.

"Sir, I'm going to need you to unlock the doors for me."

The driver bites his lip. He slowly approaches the cab again.

Suddenly, before anyone realizes what's happening, he whirls around and pulls a gun out of his jacket, holding it to Lestrade's head.

"I changed my mind," he says. "Nobody move or inspector here gets his brains blown out." Keeping the gun firmly pressed to Lestrade's head, he looks at the two mortified officers who are standing nearby. "Back off."

They hesitate for a moment, but realizing that they don't have a choice, they scamper back to the rest of the officers. Nobody on the street makes a noise.

John can now hear a noise, seemingly coming from the inside of the cab. A slight banging.

"Sherlock…" John whispers. His mind is conflicted. He wants to shoot the driver in the head and pull Sherlock out of the car right now, but he restrains himself.

Instead, while the driver is focused on the policemen, John quietly steps back and crouches down behind the bench on which he was sitting just a few minutes earlier. Not noticing him, the driver continues to speak.

"Everyone back off. I don't want anybody on this street, you understand? Everybody drop your weapons immediately. Don't try anything. I'm not afraid to pull the trigger. Believe me, I would love to kill every one of you right now, but I have my orders. Just throw your weapons down."

The policemen hesitate for a moment, but eventually drop their weapons.

"Good. Now, everyone, get away. I don't want a single person on this street except for me and Mr. Inspector here. I'm going to get in my car and drive off, and nobody is going to be on the street to stop me, do you understand? If I sense any resistance, I will not hesitate to kill him. Now, go!"

The policemen, knowing that their presence can't help anything, slowly back away. In a few minutes the street is empty, except for the driver and Lestrade.

Or, at least that's what he thinks.

Behind the bench, John is still silently crouching, waiting for an opportunity to attack. He pulls out his revolver.

He's taking his time. He's the only one who can save Lestrade and Sherlock right now, and he needs to be cautious. He only has one chance.

John tries to find a clear shot, but Lestrade's in the way. The driver opens the door of the cab and pushes Lestrade inside. He slides over into his seat and gets ready to drive off.

John realizes that this is his only chance, or else he will get away. He knows that he only has one shot. If he misses, the driver will realize what's happening and kill Lestrade.

He can't miss.

He clutches the revolver firmly in his hand and leaps out from behind the bench, firing a single shot through the window. John sprints up to the cab, not knowing what awaits him. He walks up to the window.

Inside, the driver is slumped over in his seat, blood pouring out of a bullet wound in the center of his head.

He's dead.

Lestrade stares at John with wide eyes. He's shaking, but points to the back of the car.

John grabs the keys and unlocks and yanks open the back door.

He stares into the back seat. There's a man there, tied up and gagged.

The man is Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I would really appreciate any reviews or suggestions! :)**

**Thanks so much to James Birdsong, Dragons-Twilight1992, and Esbee for your reviews on the last chapter! It's people like you that make me want to keep writing, and I really appreciate you!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Whew! How's that for a hiatus? :D **

**I know, I know, I've been a total slacker. Sorry. Life.**

**Since I've been gone for virtual eons, I'm not sure if any of my previous readers will be returning to read this, but if you do, I just want to thank you first off for your incredible patience and forbearance. I'm not _exactly_ the most regular writer, so I appreciate you putting up with my schedule.**

**I won't keep you waiting for any longer, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

"Watson, hold on. Check for the stitches."

The sudden voice snaps John out of his daze. "Lestrade... Are you alright?" he mumbles. John feels slightly embarrassed for neglecting to check on the inspector, who a moment earlier had been a bargaining chip for a murderer.

Lestrade brushes the question off with a slight nod. His hands are trembling slightly, betraying his composed attitude, but his eyes are trained on Sherlock just like John's.

He motions toward Sherlock. "Check for the stitches. Just make sure."

Oh.

John had forgotten about the fakes. What if this wasn't really...

His heart drops as he hurries to check the man's face. He breathes in deeply before he turns the man's head to the side, hoping intensely that he sees nothing there.

He is silent for a moment, and then he looks up at Lestrade, who doesn't return the stare, but instead remains fixated on the man's face.

"Nothing. It…." The words almost don't come out.

"It's you. Holmes, it's really you. You…. Where…"

As John mumbles incoherently, Lestrade keeps his gaze fixed on Holmes's face.

It's him. That's for sure.

There are no stitches present on either side of his face. In fact, as Lestrade scans Holmes, he sees no injuries other than a scabbing gash on his left temple. The discovery strikes him as strange.

Holmes was gone for days… What were his captors, whoever they were, doing?

"Mfphhhhhhh!"

The sudden noise brings John and Lestrade back into reality. He hasn't yet removed Sherlock's gag or untied him.

"Sorry, sorry…" Watson mutters as he pulls the gag out of his friend's mouth.

"Couldn't we have done that first, Watson? I've been sitting in here for a good hour or so, and that's just counting the time I've been conscious."

Watson flashes him a teasingly contemptuous look as he works on the bindings around Holmes's wrists.

He is surprised by the look on Sherlock's face as he glances upwards. Holmes looks anything but relieved. His undecipherable countenance stands in sharp contrast to his joking tone. Watson decides not to press the issue yet, but instead begins untying the last knots in the rope.

"I…"

Sherlock begins a sentence but evidently changes his mind. The worry in his look is evident and only increasing. The last ropes fall to the floor.

"Are you hurt? I'm sorry, I'm a little overwhelmed right now. I should have asked you earlier."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I am _fine_. Let's get out of here, then."

Watson extends his hand to help his friend out of the cab, but Holmes hesitates momentarily. Inhaling deeply, he grabs Watson's hand and pulls himself up outside the cab. He shivers slightly, smiling through some cryptic emotion.

"Dr. Watson, you look ghastly."

Watson smirks.

"Not too marvelous yourself, Holmes."

* * *

"I heard Mr. Wilson paid you a visit." The sudden remark breaks the silence of the hospital room.

John sighs. "Indeed. This isn't the first time I've been in this hospital this week, I'm afraid."

John thinks he sees an expression of pain flash over Holmes's features for a split-second. If John is reading him right, Holmes seems less affected by his experience during his absence and more by John's recollection of his own.

The expression is quickly replaced by the still-unidentified emotion that Holmes has been unsuccessfully trying to hide since his reappearance.

"Yeah, you're going to have to cut that out."

"Sorry?" questions Sherlock.

"Stop the pretending. You've told me nothing of what happened, which I would be fine with if you didn't seem so ensnared by _whatever_ feeling it is that you've been attempting to hide from me. Come on, Holmes. You may be the detective, but I'm not an idiot. Something's buzzing around in that head of yours, and whatever it is, you shouldn't be trying to keep it hidden from me."

Holmes' reluctance remains, though the guise fails. "I'm not going to lie to you. I don't know what to do."

"Do?" Watson questions. "What on earth makes you think you've got to do something? You just escaped a murderer."

Holmes opens his mouth as if he's about to speak, but then he shakes his head and stops. A few moments later he speaks.

"Watson, that's exactly it. I didn't."

John's questioning look prompts Holmes to speak again.

"What would you do if you had to choose who lived? Could you do it? Could you pull the trigger knowing that someone would die, when not pulling that trigger would be just as fatal?"

"Holmes, just stop. Stop the cryptic, open-ended statements. I want to know what's going on."

Holmes is clearly agitated. He rises to his feet and paces around the room silently.

Bewildered and angry, John Watson closes his eyes and breathes in sharply. What is Sherlock talking about?

For the first time since Holmes' rescue, John begins to consider the situation. He recalls how skeptical he was before, when the writing on the wall was just discovered. How could such a careful team of professional criminals fail to notice that?

Only one answer occurs to John: they didn't.

But then, why is Sherlock alive? The whole situation at the crossroads seemed… too easy. John had learned often enough from Holmes that "easy" police investigations often turn out to be something much deeper. But what can it possibly be? Why is Sherlock Holmes sitting in this hospital room, alive and almost unharmed?

Watson's thoughts are suddenly interrupted by an agonized whisper.

"I didn't escape the murderer, Watson. I can't do it; I don't know how. I don't know what to do, John Watson, and for once you can't help me out of it."

Furrowing his brow, John stares into Sherlock's tragic, piercing eyes. "You're free now, Holmes. I don't understand what you're talking about."

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. His tone turns from miserable to half-crazed.

"I'm not free. Oh… Watson, I'm anything but free. You wouldn't…couldn't… understand.

Let me explain this to you. I'm not talking about Wilson, or that cab driver, or anyone else. I don't care about them.

You see, I can't possibly escape the murderer because I _am_ the murderer."

* * *

**Ahhhh, it's nice to finally have some Holmes in my story. If this chapter seems to be a little lacking in action compared to the others, that's just me having fun with their dynamic since I _finally_ have both Watson and Holmes alive in the same room. Took a while!**

**Anyways, I would like to give my thanks (admittedly belated, but very much sincere) to Dragons-Twilight1992, Esbee, PostAnotherTaco, James Birdsong, Interested, Proud, and Yue521 for your reviews! ****All of you are what brings me back to my screen at 2 am to finally update!**

**As always, I would really appreciate any reviews, comments, and especially suggestions!**


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